Best Man
by c-r-roberts
Summary: Prim's getting married. Katniss, of course, is her maid of honor. And Peeta Mellark, the groom's annoyingly charming best friend and successful business partner, is the best man.
1. Chapter 1

Today's the big day. It's taken a year of planning, a few too many conversations about flowers and seating charts, and a budget that's bigger than my salary, but it's finally here.

Prim's wedding day.

And as I stand in the large hotel room someone's labeled the _bridal suite_, watching Prim receive the final touches of her makeup, done by a woman Prim's hired to do everyone's, and while listening to the others squeal in excitement with each stroke of a brow pencil, I'm not entirely sure how I feel about my 25 year-old sister getting married—especially to someone _my_ age. But that's neither here nor there, because at this point, all that's left to do is zip up Prim's dress before this thing happens. And I'm the maid of honor, so it's my job to plaster a smile on my face and be ecstatically happy for her.

And for the most part, I am. Thom's a good guy and I know he loves my sister. But who doesn't love Prim? I just worry she's gotten swept off her feet by Thom's relative good looks and the fact that he's loaded.

Legitimately, he's a millionaire. He's barely thirty, but he's made his money with something that had just started out as odd jobs around town to make a little extra cash during college. The summer before his junior year, Thom and his best friend began painting houses for friends' parents and such, and apparently they were good, and efficient, and reasonably priced. And word of mouth traveled quickly, and soon they weren't just painting houses for friends but for half the city. The way Thom tells it, they incorporated the small business when he was 23. And by the time he was 26, it had snowballed into a multimillion dollar company.

A multimillion dollar company with over 50 employees that he and his friend—his best man—still run together. A company that Thom says kept him so busy that he needed to join an online dating service in order to meet women because he didn't have time to do it the old fashioned way—like trolling bars and coffee shops. And that's how he met Prim three years ago, when she was all of 22 and right out of college and afraid of ending up alone, insisting she needed to date online because she _still_ didn't have a boyfriend.

And so here I am with my sister, the bride, getting ready in a lavish hotel suite upstairs from the even more lavish ballroom the reception will be held in later tonight. I'm surrounded by Thom's two sisters and his mother, Prim's two best friends Delly and Rue, and my mother, who's sitting quietly in the corner and is probably the only person here that feels more out of place than me.

I watch, sipping a glass of obligatory champagne casually as the makeup lady proclaims Prim's _all done_ and holds up a mirror for Prim to see herself. And of course I smile, my heart warming at how beautiful she looks, her blonde hair swept up elegantly, and her pale blue eyes even more stunning under false eyelashes and the perfect shade of eye shadow.

But I also furrow my brow when I catch her face fall as Delly exaggeratedly fawns over her, telling her Thom's just going _to die_ when he sees her.

Because clearly, Prim thinks something's wrong.

"Shit!"

She covers her mouth as she curses—because Prim is lady-like and rarely swears—and she forgets about studying her own reflection in the mirror, rushing over to the purse she used last night and digging through it frantically until she pulls out what she's looking for.

A small velvet box.

The wedding rings.

Prim immediately looks at me because she knows I know exactly what she's thinking.

_"Katniss, please don't let me forget to give these to Peeta,"_ she'd practically begged me as we left her room for the rehearsal last night and she'd slipped them into her purse.

_Oops_. Because although I'd agreed to remind her, I'd become easily distracted, at first with trying not to show my annoyance with the best man, who'd spent most of the night shamelessly flirting with the bridesmaids, and then also with the bottle of wine Rue and I had split at dinner—the only other bridesmaid who hadn't seemed so enamored with his supposed charm.

"Shit," I breathe, echoing my sister's curse.

I don't even let her form the question—the one on the tip of her tongue about to ask me to take them to him—before I chug the rest of the champagne in my glass, needing the liquid courage, and then cross the room to her holding out my hand.

She looks relieved that I'm not putting up a fight as she gives me the box.

Because on any other day, I probably would have.

"What room is he in?" I ask her, hoping I've disguised my displeasure with the tight smile I'm currently forcing.

Prim scrunches her face, in thought.

"I know Thom's in 1407, so he's got to be somewhere around there."

I'm about to ask Prim to text him or something to find out exactly where he is so I don't have to blindly stumble around the fourteenth floor of the hotel knocking on doors when Delly chimes in.

"He's in 1410."

Everyone in the room turns to stare at her, and I have to stop myself from wrinkling my nose, watching her lips turn up into a coy grin as she shrugs.

"Thanks," I say flatly. And then I turn for the door to complete my mission.

"I'll be right back."

And I intend to be. Because I will not let my impromptu visit with the best man take any longer than it absolutely has to.

It's not that I hate Peeta Mellark. It's just that I don't necessarily like him, either. He's arrogant, and_ too_ charming, and when he smiles, it's like it's because he just knows that everyone loves him. And judging by the way Prim and Thom talk, he can't keep a serious girlfriend. Or rather, he doesn't want to. Although why should he? Women bow at his feet. Clearly, he's got half the bridesmaids wrapped around his finger.

Though it sounds like he's got Delly wrapped around more than just his _finger_.

Plus, Peeta aggravates the hell out of me when we're all together. Usually I just want to ignore him and the annoyingly playful way he tries to engage me. But sometimes, it's impossible, because he's broad-shouldered and boyishly handsome with that effortlessly great smile of his. And unforgettable blue eyes.

They're the most aggravating part about him.

So when I reach room 1410, I brace myself before I knock.

And then impatiently wait twenty seconds for Peeta to answer the door. He's already dressed for the big day, at least for the most part, wearing well-fitting black slacks, a perfectly tailored white dress shirt and black suspenders, and a yet-to-be-tied bow tie hangs around his neck.

He looks intrigued by my presence.

"Hey, look, it's my favorite Everdeen. To what do I owe the pleasure?" Peeta's eyes flash their amusement. He waves me in as I sigh, walking past him into his room, taking in my surroundings.

His room is almost the size of the bridal suite, with a common living area and French doors that open to the separate bedroom. His tuxedo jacket is slung over the back of a dining chair, and there's a half-drunk beer bottle on the table next to it.

Peeta breezes past me, picking it up by its neck and swigging it casually.

"Want one?" he asks with a perk of an eyebrow after swallowing his sip. "They're only ten bucks out of the mini fridge."

I fold my arms across my chest.

"No thanks. Plenty of champagne upstairs."

Peeta shrugs, taking another sip of his beer before putting it back down on the glass top of the table and taking position in front of the full length mirror.

"No, but seriously. Why are you here? Don't you have maid of honor duties to attend to?" He looks at me out of the corner of his eye, focusing on his reflection as he begins to manipulate the fabric hanging around his neck.

"And that's exactly what I'm doing now," I tell him. "You, um, needed the rings."

"Oh, right," he says distractedly, trying to fold the satin around the loop he's already made.

I watch for a beat, slightly entertained at the level of concentration Peeta's currently using.

"Fuck," he mutters, frustrated when whatever he's trying to do doesn't work.

I smirk, placing the box with both wedding rings down on the table and catch his gaze in the mirror.

"You don't know how to tie a bow tie by now?"

Because you'd think, with his millions of dollars and all of the fancy parties he must attend, wearing a tuxedo would be second nature to Peeta Mellark.

He chuckles, his hands still fumbling at his neck.

"It's unfortunately on my list of the very few things I haven't mastered before turning 30."

Peeta watches me roll my eyes in the mirror before dropping his hands and giving up. Then he turns to me, looking all sorts of helpless.

"Will you help me?"

I scoff. He can't be serious.

"Don't you have a secretary or something that can do this for you? Or some 23 year-old hanging around who's more than eager to help?"

_I should have sent up Delly_, I think, trying not to let Peeta see me swallow the lump in my throat when he just stares at me with an amused look, shaking his head slowly in response.

"Nope," he grins. "You're my last hope."

I sigh.

"I don't know how to do it either," I verbally backpedal. "I think I've tied maybe one in my entire life."

For Gale. Before…well, just _before_.

Peeta looks at me sheepishly.

"I have these instructions pulled up on my phone you can use. I'm just terrible at following them."

We're staring at each other for another moment before he continues.

"Katniss. I've been trying to tie the damn thing for ten minutes now. Please?"

I really don't want to. I want to go back to Prim's room, watch her finish getting ready, and get this show on the road and send her down the aisle. And only worry about Peeta later, when I have to, like when we have to take photos and sit with each other at the reception.

But those eyes. They're actually pleading with me.

"Fine," I give in, exhaling exaggeratedly. "But only because you can't look like an idiot for my sister's wedding."

And I make Peeta show me the instructions he has on his phone, studying them for a moment before I step into him and tentatively begin fiddling with the satin around his neck.

I've never been this close to him before.

He smells good. Like crisp cologne and clean expensive soap.

I keep my eyes focused on my work, trying not to let his scent, or the sound of his light breathing, or the rise and fall of his chest that's practically pressed up against mine, affect me. And I'm doing a good enough job for a while, because I'm on step five of ten, according to the directions, and folding one end of the fabric around the first loop of the bow tie when it's Peeta's voice that finally distracts me.

"You look really pretty today."

Inwardly, I freeze, and outwardly I pause what I'm doing, but I still manage to look up at him skeptically.

"Watch it. I've got easy access to your windpipes right now."

I not only hear Peeta laugh, but I feel it too, as it vibrates from his chest and up through his throat. He shakes his head, dropping his very blue eyes only to drag them back up to eye level slowly, as if he's taking all of me in.

"What? You do. And I like your dress. Prim has good taste."

I glance down at myself instinctively, knowing that Prim does in fact have decent taste, and I'm grateful for it because it means I'm wearing a simple black chiffon dress with a sweetheart neckline that doesn't make me look terrible.

"She does," I allow myself to confirm, not acknowledging Peeta's compliment, unsure of what to make of it and even less sure of how to respond.

His eyebrows lift mischievously.

"And a hot sister."

Well, that ten seconds of sincerity had been nice while it lasted.

I make a face.

"Shut up and stay still," I tell him, unimpressed, and although he's grinning, he obliges, letting me resume my work.

Although I can't deny that he's flustered me, and I'm having trouble figuring out what my next step was supposed to be as I absently fiddle with the fabric.

"Is she nervous?" Peeta continues the conversation casually, like he tells girls they're hot all the time. _He probably does._ And I guess that makes it easier to answer him, along with the fact that I'm unable to look him in the eye as I concentrate, stuck staring at his…_neck_ instead.

"She's…Prim. She just wants everything to be perfect."

Peeta laughs lightly. "Well, I think _because_ she's Prim, it's probably going to be perfect no matter what."

I know what he means. Prim leads a bit of a charmed life. Everyone loves her. And things just seem to go her way.

She and Peeta have a lot in common, actually.

I don't respond, instead focusing on the most intricate part of the process where I need to form the second loop. But once I get it successfully secured, only left with wrapping everything up with the rest of the fabric, I glance back up at Peeta, who I notice is watching me carefully.

"What about Thom? Did you keep him out late last night?"

Peeta shakes his head as I give the bow one final tug to straighten it, and then step back, relieved my work is done, and silently proud that it doesn't look half bad.

"No," he tells me, turning to look at himself in the mirror. "We called it an early night. I had…other things to do."

Peeta adjusts the bow slightly but he otherwise looks pretty pleased.

Although it's hard to tell if it's because of the bow tie or because of himself.

"Like Delly?" I accuse with a roll of my eyes, the sharpness of my voice surprising me.

Because it's not like I care. Even if it is pretty crass for the best man to sleep with the bridesmaids.

But Peeta furrows his brow, staring at me in the mirror.

"I meant work."

I can't tell if I believe him or not. I wouldn't put it past him to lie to me, but at the same time I know that he really does work insane hours too. But I shrug, nonchalantly, because it doesn't really matter anyway.

"Well then you should probably know that you might have a stalker."

Peeta turns back to me with a quizzical expression.

"What?"

I shake my head, waving him off.

"Never mind. You all set here then?"

He's still looking at me, his head cocked to one side curiously, and he picks up the cufflinks set on the table, adorning them to his shirt sleeves.

"Yeah, I think so," Peeta nods. "Thanks for helping me out. It looks good, right?"

It's more of a statement than a question, but it still forces me to consider him. The bow tie's fine. And combined with his expensive suit, his perfectly styled hair, piercing blue eyes and a smile that makes me falter, Peeta looks like he should be in a wedding magazine or something.

"It looks good," I confirm, hoping my thoughts don't betray my casual words.

"Good," he nods again, still smiling. "So, you ready for this?"

_Not really._

"Yes."

His knowing gaze cuts through me.

"Liar."

And I sigh, impatiently looking at the clock that hangs on the wall in the kitchenette, having already met my Peeta Mellark quota for the day before it's even really started.

"What's the matter, you got some place better to be or something?"

And there's that smile again.

I laugh, appreciating the sarcasm if not the smile.

"2:55. _Prim puts on wedding dress_," I say dryly, reciting from memory her highly-detailed itinerary.

Peeta finishes clasping the second pair of cufflinks and glances at the clock too, then looks back at me pointedly.

"Three minutes, you better hurry."

He doesn't have to tell me twice, and I make my way for the door with an awkward nod and no real goodbye, since I'll just be seeing him again in a couple of hours anyway.

"Katniss."

I'm at his door when he calls my name, and I stop and turn to see him pulling the tuxedo jacket off the chair, shrugging it on as he grins at me.

"Don't forget to save me a dance later."

I sigh and roll my eyes.

But I don't say no.

Instead, I give him a reminder of my own.

"Don't forget the rings."

Peeta grins.

"Deal."

* * *

Prim's reception is in the hotel's huge ballroom that holds the over two-hundred people here comfortably. I'm surrounded by cream peonies and pink roses, plush linens and gold chairs, pretty dresses and tuxedos, and mostly strange faces but some familiar ones too. The head table looks out on the crowd from the front of the room, and it's a happy atmosphere, obviously, but staring into the sea of faces as the band stops playing its soft dinner music fills me with dread.

I am not afraid of many things in life. I kill my own spiders. I've jumped off the high diving board. I'll go running alone in the dark. But without a doubt, my worst nightmare is standing up in front of a group of people and speaking to them. And having to give a three minute toast at my sister's wedding has me contemplating a trip to the bathroom so I can throw up my salad.

But I love my sister, and I really do like her and Thom as a couple. And Prim's already lost out on traditions like the father-daughter dance and having him walk her down the aisle, so really, the least I can do is give a maid of honor speech. So I take a few deep breaths as the band leader announces me, and I manage to keep my first course down as I begin.

Even with my trembling knees, a few awkward pauses, and a wrinkled note card filled with my shorthand for reference points, it doesn't go as horribly as it could have. At the end of the day, I'm really just talking to Prim. And telling her how much I love her. And how happy I am that she's found someone who loves her just as much as I do. That I know our dad is proud of her, and would have loved Thom, just like my mother and I love him. Just like we love _them_.

And because she's Prim, she tears up, even though what I'm saying doesn't warrant tears. But just looking at her makes me tear up too, so I end up finishing by choking out a laugh and making a silly comment about keeping it short and sweet because I know I'm holding up dinner and that I'm basically just the opening act anyway. I thank everyone for coming, asking them to raise their glasses with me to the new couple. Then after, I hug Thom and a still wet-eyed Prim, and people are clapping and even smiling. And I feel an overwhelming sense of relief. Because I spoke in front of 200 people and didn't die. And because it means my maid of honor obligations are officially over.

But relief isn't the only thing that overwhelms me. Because when I regroup and am able to refocus on the rest of the head table, I realize that Peeta's staring at me. Which shouldn't be such a big deal, especially because his toast is up next and I have to pass the microphone off to him, but the look in his eye is an intense one. He's even ignoring Thom, who's elbowing him and loudly joking for Peeta to take it easy on him to a chorus of chuckles.

And then I'm suddenly nervous all over again. I hold the microphone out to Peeta who stands to take it from me, dropping my gaze. We've been in the same routine all day so far, complete with sarcastic banter and light-hearted quips at the other's expense. Not that we've even acknowledged the other all that much anyway; I've been busy making sure Prim's got everything she needs—from someone to hold her bouquet to making sure her lip gloss is reapplied as needed, and Peeta's kept himself occupied by cracking jokes about Thom with Thom's brother and chatting up Delly.

So honestly, I'm not really sure why his eyes—that are usually so light and full of mischief—are darker now as they seriously examine me.

"Thanks," Peeta whispers as we trade places, and his hand ghosts over the small of my back, sending an involuntary shiver up my spine.

I remain silent, slipping into my seat that's next to Prim, finding it easier to stare into my lap than to look back up at him as the band leader introduces the best man.

Although I'm sure Peeta adjusts quickly back to gleaming eyes and white-teeth smiles, because of course he has the crowd eating out of the palm of his hand within seconds.

This is what Peeta does best. Thom says it's why he's the salesman of the company. He's great with words. And he can convince anyone of anything.

Not that this crowd needs much convincing of what he's saying. He tells us that he's glad that Prim could turn Thom into someone who cares about things other than work, joking even if it means he's stuck carrying the brunt of the work on date night now. And that he knew Thom was serious about Prim when he cancelled a late meeting with an important client simply because he wanted to take Prim to dinner that night to celebrate a promotion Prim received at work. Peeta explains that he's known Thom for over ten years now, and he's never seen him as genuinely happy as he's been these past few years with Prim. He wishes them a lifetime of that kind of happiness.

Basically, Peeta's absurdly charming, and he makes the guests laugh and sigh with his words.

Then after a small pause, he says that every man deserves to find someone they love as much as Thom loves Prim.

I'm caught off guard when his eyes land on me as he speaks. It's quick, and fleeting, but it happens. And I shift uncomfortably in my chair, quickly pulling my attention to my sister and Thom, instead of returning his gaze, until I'm distracted by the sight of Delly physically swooning in her seat. She even _bats her eyelashes_ in Peeta's direction.

Ugh. She's a terrible flirt.

In that she's actually _terrible _at flirting. She's obvious and desperate and much too forward. I roll my eyes before I even know I'm doing it, then look around guiltily, hoping no one saw.

As a refocus my attention back to Peeta, needing the crowd to believe I'm not an immature brat, I know he caught me, because he perks an eyebrow and curls his lip just enough to frustrate me.

"Well, anyway, Peeta continues, nodding his head toward me, "Katniss probably said it best. You're all hungry, and I'm holding up dinner. And you're all here because you love Prim and Thom too. So you don't need me telling you how great they are."

He raises his glass, and the room follows suit.

"So, here's to my best friend, Thom, and the best girl he could possibly find for himself. Congratulations."

After the warm and rousing second toast, I watch Peeta take his seat, which is next to Delly's, who _of course _immediately touches his arm, surely praising him, and then looks like she's on cloud nine when Peeta grins and says something that makes her laugh.

It's almost amusing to watch her desperation.

But it's also really fucking annoying.

And so I stop paying attention, happily distracted by a lovely five course meal, chatting with my sister about how perfect everything is—which isn't an exaggeration because it's been a beautiful day and the reception's gone off without a hitch—and then making better friends with Rue, who's to my right, and Thresh, a groomsman, who sits next to her.

I purposefully don't glance in Peeta's direction for the rest of the meal.

And I purposefully pretend I don't notice when he sends at least three looks in my direction.

But all of the disinterest in the world doesn't help when everyone stands to watch the bride and groom dance their first dance, because Peeta slides down into the spot where Prim should be, standing next to me, close enough that I can feel his presence even though I don't break my gaze from watching my little sister, officially a grown, married woman, dance with her husband.

They're dancing to a crappy song—_When a Man Loves a Woman, _but at least there's a story behind it. Prim says Thom insisted on the song because it came on the car radio when he'd driven her home from their first date.

I also have to bite my lip watching Thom awkwardly attempt to lead Prim in a waltz that's disjointed and kind of terrible, but also sweet and endearing at the same time. If only because it's _so_ bad.

We stand silently for a few moments before he leans over.

"You'd never know they took dance lessons, right?" he whispers, and it's all I can do to suppress a snort of laughter.

"Be nice," I hiss back, unable to look at him.

"I _am_ being nice. If I wasn't being nice, I'd tell you Thom looks like a duck right now."

My eyes go wide, and I look around to see if anyone else has heard him. But as far as I can tell, everyone is still focused on the bride and groom and not the obnoxious, but correct, best man.

Peeta smirks.

"Tell me I'm wrong."

I shake my head at him, looking back to the dance floor, but I can't contain my smile, because _oh god_, Thom really does look like a duck.

"Well, I still think it's sweet."

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Peeta shove his hands in his pockets, rocking slightly on the balls of his feet.

"They really love each other, huh?"

It's true. It's the kind of love that's obvious just by looking at them. Like now, as we watch Thom step on Prim's dress, and then look horrified, although she just giggles at him.

It's not really a statement that needs a response.

Besides, the music swells as the band leads into the chorus, and it's too loud now to rudely whisper back and forth over the crooning of a vocalist who's trying too hard to sound like Michael Bolton anyway.

But once we reach an instrumental break, I have a weak moment of honesty after the minute of silence between us.

"Nice speech, by the way," I whisper.

Peeta gives me a funny look and a lopsided smile.

"Yeah, well, you're no _opening act_ yourself. You showed me up, actually."

I wave him off, not even bothering to respond. But he shakes his head once at me.

"No. Seriously. It was a great toast, Katniss."

Peeta's still got that funny look in his eyes. And nothing short of utter confusion crosses my face.

"Why are you being _nice_ to me?"

He chuckles lightly under his breath, reaching for my elbow, drawing me into him, and then closing the rest of the distance himself. His voice is low and his lips brush my ear.

"You really have no idea, do you?" The effect you can have."

I suck in a breath as all of it sends another shiver up my spine. And I think I hate him for it.

I need to get it together. I need to pay attention to the terrible dancing. I need to make my heart stop beating against my chest.

He pulls back from me, and I'm expecting a smirk or a laugh, or maybe a wink. But instead he gives me a smile that's almost…genuine. With just a touch of shyness.

Before I can respond—before I can do anything but stand there looking dumbfounded and ineloquent—the Michael Bolton impersonator's stopped singing, the song's over, and Thresh is clasping Peeta on the shoulder telling him the photographer wants their college friends on the dance floor to take a group photo.

And it's only then, right before Peeta follows Thresh away from me, that I get that wink I was expecting.

I'm actually glad for it, though. Because it's a much needed reminder that Peeta Mellark has _every_ idea of what effect_ he_ can have.

* * *

I spend the next twenty minutes visiting with my mother, who sits at a table with my aunt Effie, her husband, who we all call by his last name—Boggs—and some of my mother's friends from work. I'm chatting with my mother and one of the other nurses she works with, a plump woman in her later thirties named Octavia, about just how beautiful Prim looks today and how elegant the reception is, when Octavia smiles sweetly at me and asks me when I think _I'll_ finally get married.

I pause, slightly stunned, and smile a tight, polite smile, because I can't believe she has the audacity to ask a question like that. First, because she's single herself, and older than me too.

But more importantly because Octavia had been invited to my wedding once upon a time. The wedding that...hadn't exactly happened. So even if it's an honest mistake and she doesn't mean it that way, it still feels like a personal attack.

My mother shoots me a sympathetic look, and saves me the need to answer, making a lighthearted comment that she thinks we have enough weddings in the family this year.

She laughs, and I laugh too, refusing to let the question drudge up old memories on such a good day. Especially since I'm completely and totally _over it_.

But I still don't feel like being asked any more questions about my love life, and having already spent the obligatory few minutes visiting with guests of our family now, I glance around the room anxiously, relieved when I see my out.

"I think the bride might need me back," I lie, eying Prim and Thom who've returned to our table.

Thankfully, no one questions me and I escape relatively unscathed. Although, especially on days like today, it's hard not to imagine what my life would be like right now if the wedding _had_ happened.

I swing by the bar for a much needed drink, and I'm making my way back to the head table when I'm cut off by an urgently approaching Peeta Mellark. He stops me in my tracks, somewhere between tables 8 and 9, not caring about the surprise, or the irritation, I'm showing on my face. His eyes convey that none of that is important to him now because he's definitely in a hurry to get somewhere.

As I stare at him, bewildered, he steals my wine glass out of my hand—much to my displeasure—and sets it swiftly down on the table that's not even ours.

"Time to dance with me."

Then he grabs my wrist, apparently intending to drag me onto the dance floor if he has to.

"You know, I don't really think that's how it works," I tell him with an annoyed look as he manages to move us a few steps closer.

Although I could probably plant my feet right now and stop entirely if I wanted to.

Peeta exhales at my resistance, and he gives me a look that's somewhere between knowing and pleading, and then the eight piece band begins the first notes to _The Way You Look Tonight_, and I sigh.

And before I know it, I'm sucked into dancing in Peeta Mellark's arms.

He guides me in small circles, surprisingly gentlemanly about the whole thing—holding my hand with our arms properly extended, and resting his other hand softly at the small of my back as I hang onto his shoulder. And we're carefully keeping plenty of space between ourselves. From a distance, it probably seems like a polite dance between the maid of honor and the best man.

But the current of electricity thrumming through me at Peeta's proximity tells me it's not that innocent.

Both of us are quiet at first, maybe trying to get used to falling into step with the other. Although we move surprisingly easily together.

But after a minute, I hear him humming along as the male vocalist—who's more Sinatra and less Bolton sounding now—sings about _nose-wrinkling laughs_ and _foolish hearts being touched,_ and I finally look up into his eyes. They're shining and crystal blue. He smiles, and I feel myself returning it with a small one of my own.

"Think we're showing up the bride and groom right now?" Peeta asks playfully, surely aware he doesn't have Thom's two left feet.

"I don't think anyone's paying attention to us," I tell him honestly.

He grins mischievously.

"So let's change that."

Peeta doesn't allow me to react, and instead in one fluid movement, he spins me out of his arms, into open space, and then pulling me back into him, holding me closer when I return. He caught me off guard, and I'm not exactly graceful, but I know we turn heads. And I can't help the laugh that escapes me.

Peeta chuckles too, but I feel his arms tense as he helps straighten me out, letting his fingertips linger on the curve of my shoulders for a few seconds before he moves them, reaching for my hand again.

"So why the sudden urge to dance?" I ask casually, tucking a strand of misplaced hair behind my ear as we resume our regular dancing form. Keeping the conversation going seems like a good idea—it's a way to distract myself from how good he still smells and how solid his arms feel around me.

Peeta tilts his head to the side.

"Pretty girl. Great song. Seemed like good enough reasons to me."

I roll my eyes and I hope he can't see the flush I feel in my cheeks.

He turns us again effortlessly, and my breath hitches at the conspiratorial look he gives me as he does.

"Also. I may need you to help me out again."

I narrow my eyes slightly, trying to figure him out. I want to deny him, and be able to tell Peeta that he's gotten enough favors out of me today. But he's looking at me with just the right amount of a twinkle in his eyes and a dangerously endearing smile that oozes sincerity, and even though I know better, it's practically impossible to say no to him.

"How so?" I ask cautiously, at least willing to consider what he wants from me.

I watch Peeta look over my shoulder, his eyes darting behind me and then back to me quickly. And he pulls me even closer to him so that our ribcages touch, pressing his hand into my back as he leans into me.

"You're really going to have to trust me." His warm breath hangs on the sensitive skin of my ear lobe, and his words unnerve me.

I pull my head back to look at him, starting to shake my head.

"Peeta, I'm not—"

And before I know what's happening, his lips are on mine, cutting off my sentence, and then swallowing my gasp. There isn't time—or room—to breathe. Or think.

All I know is that Peeta's kissing me.

And the only thing I can feel is heat.

I feel heat in my cheeks and in the tips of my ears because it's embarrassing, for Peeta to be kissing me on the dance floor at my sister's wedding.

Especially for no apparent reason.

But I also feel a different kind of heat because of the _way_ he's kissing me. Like, really kissing me—dipping me over his knee with ease, his hand supporting the back of my head where his fingers curl into my hair, pressing his warm mouth against my lips with a force and insistence that makes my head swim and my stomach flip-flop.

And despite my surprise, and despite the audience, and despite myself, I'm kissing him back.

When he brings me right-side up again, and takes his lips off of mine, I see them upturn crookedly.

"Thanks," he breathes, and the husky lilt to his voice makes me swallow hard.

It takes a long moment, and Peeta's blond lashes flutter as he looks at me carefully as I slowly recover from the shock and confusion of it all. And just as I become unflustered enough to want to ask what the hell _that_ was for, I notice Peeta's gaze become fixated on something—_someone_—positioned over my shoulder.

And I turn to see what he's looking at.

Delly.

Standing on the edge of the dance floor, her jaw practically on the floor, but her blue eyes look as though she's attempting to zap me into dust with them.

If my stomach was flip-flopping seconds ago, it completely drops now.

I turn back to Peeta, who's grinning at me.

"You were right. Total stalker."

And it's my turn for my jaw to drop.

I honestly feel like throwing up. And like the biggest idiot in the world.

"I thought you could help me ditch her. Although you might have to stay close by the rest of the night," he continues to explain, still grinning and apparently not noticing the stiffness of my stance and the way I recoil when he moves back into me.

He must really think I'm stupid then. Because Peeta obviously slept with Delly last night. It's the only explanation that adds up. From her knowledge of Peeta's room number, to her desperate flirting with him today, and certainly with the hurt and anger registering on her face now.

But Peeta, clearly having already gotten what he came for, wanted Delly to know he's moved on.

To the next girl on his never-ending list.

To me.

"You're disgusting," I spit at him, too aware that my words fall from my lips that still taste like him.

I feel heat again, but this time only out of sheer anger. And I shrug him off hastily as he reaches to stop me when I make a bee line off the dance floor, sure my face is beet red and not wanting to make any more of an ass of myself than Peeta Mellark already has.

I briefly catch a glimpse of Prim, standing to the side of the dance floor with Thom, who's gone completely bug-eyed, surely having caught our..._kiss_, but I ignore her, heading for the lobby, needing to be alone.

Though I have no such luck, because I hear Peeta call my name softly behind me, before he follows behind me. I don't want to make a scene, so I curse inwardly and let him tail me, waiting until we've passed the bar and exit through the ballroom's swinging doors, where I push hard enough that I hope they smack him in the face.

"I'm not doing this now," I tell him curtly, once we're out of eye sight and ear shot.

He stands in front of me, keeping a good couple of feet between us, which is honestly the smartest thing he's done all night, looking at me with a sort of wild, upset expression.

"Not doing what? What is going on? Are you mad that I kissed you? I thought—"

I shake my head vigorously at him, not having any of it, not willing to hear any more of Peeta's stupid words.

"It's their wedding, and I refuse to fight at it. Which means, lucky for you, I also won't yell at the top of my lungs how much of an asshole you are."

_No, I'm going to tell him softly and calmly instead, for only him to hear me._

"So here's the plan, Peeta. We're going to go back in there and celebrate my sister and your best friend. And you're going to leave me the fuck alone for the rest of the night."

I stare coldly at him, watching his face contort. Am I wrong or does he actually look…wounded?

Well, good.

Peeta sighs, stepping tentatively toward me.

"Will you just calm down and let me explain?"

I narrow my eyes at him, trying not to explode. Because I'm so mad. I'm so mad at him, for treating me like a piece in some game. And for kissing me in front of everyone.

And for making me kiss him back.

So no, I won't let him explain. Because I know he'll just try and sell me again. And this time, I won't even give myself the option to buy it.

"No," I say plainly with a definitive shake of my head.

"And don't follow me," I tell him, shoving a finger in the direction of his chest before turning on my heel and leaving Peeta standing there, for once in his life, speechless.

* * *

_A/N: So this new little WiP started out as a drabble for __sponsormusings__ and then turned into a multi-chapter story that wouldn't get out of my head, so I figured I'd write it down. ;) I'll work with this as the inspiration comes, and future chapters will probably be much shorter than this one, but I'd love to hear what you think. And you can always come find me on tumblr at c-r-rorberts and let me know what's up there too. _


	2. Chapter 2

Prim and Thom's house is old, beautiful, and perfectly renovated. It's in one of those neighborhoods that's full of similar houses—two hundred year old colonials that have been gutted to support an open floor plan and granite counter tops. It's where rich people who don't need 8,000 square foot mansions on two acres of land live. And it's just a few minutes outside of downtown—so while it's quaint, it's still bustling, with plenty of dog-walkers and runners on the sidewalks, and there are shops and restaurants around every corner.

I'd live here too if I could afford it.

So it wasn't a difficult decision to stay over and house sit for two weeks while Prim and Thom honeymoon in Bora Bora. And by the first Friday, I've set up in the guest room, figured out the cable channels, and even become one of those runners and dog walkers.

In fact, the dog is the only hard part. He's also the main reason they wanted me to stay over. Prim and Thom have a golden doodle. He's three years old, at least 70 pounds, and true to his name—Buttercup—he's the color of butter. And he hates me. We've been dancing around one another all week. At first I thought he was just on edge because he missed his owners. And then I figured it was because he had a stranger in his house. But after five days of me, you'd think he'd get used to the routine. And that he'd warm up to me after I've fed him and let him outside and even taken him for walks, despite the fact that he's big enough and misbehaved enough that it feels more like _he_ walks _me_.

So when I arrive home from work after an exhausting day of instructing seventh graders on the best way to filet a frog, and I've already gone for my run and showered in the guest bathroom, I guess I shouldn't be surprised when Buttercup goes nuts just because I have the audacity to go into Prim and Thom's bedroom. I'm only in it for a minute, looking for a light sweater in Prim's closet because the evening air has a chill to it I wasn't expecting, but Buttercup still howls like crazy from atop of their bed like I'm an infiltrator. I hiss and curse at him, grabbing the first linen cardigan I can find.

"I don't have to feed you, you know," I mutter, throwing the sweater on over my tank top and glaring at the stupid floppy, fluffy thing that's practically giving me the doggy evil eye as he follows me out of their bedroom. Although it's an empty threat, since a well-fed—and hopefully sleepy—golden doodle is less likely to bother my relaxing night in consisting of pizza, wine, and a movie. And after a day like today—which involved warning twelve year olds not to throw amphibian organs at one another—and weekends like last weekend—which involved a wedding that exhausted me physically and emotionally—I'm more than ready for a night on the couch in my sweats.

The dog forgets he hates me when the doorbell rings, though. He probably thinks he has bigger enemies to fight now—coming in the form of pizza delivery guys—as he takes off for the front door, urgently pacing in front of it when I arrive. I hiss for him to sit, and while miraculously, he does, I'm still hoping he doesn't jump up on the unlucky person selected to deliver my pizza as I swing open the door.

My eyes go wide with surprise, and then narrow almost instantly with suspicion, when the person standing on the front porch isn't someone bringing me dinner.

It's Peeta. He's dressed casually too—in an old t-shirt and a pair of shorts, his blue eyes hidden behind a pair of aviators. But as he pushes his sunglasses to the top of his head, I'm confused, because he actually looks pleased to see me.

"Oh. Hey. I didn't think anyone was here."

I tilt my head, raising an eyebrow skeptically, not making any effort to greet him. Although Buttercup behind me starts to whine, since he's apparently much more excited than I am to see our visitor.

"Why'd you knock then?"

Peeta shrugs. And then he grins.

He bends down to pet the dog who's run past me, eagerly nuzzling his head against Peeta's hand as he scratches his ears enthusiastically, greeting him with a soft "Hey there, buddy." Of _course _the dog loves Peeta. This should come as absolutely no surprise to me; but I'm still taken aback a little because Buttercup's affection clearly means that Peeta is a welcome guest in this house. And here I am having felt like an intruder all week.

"I just stopped by to borrow the hedge trimmer," Peeta explains, standing back up right as Buttercup sits dutifully at his feet. He fixes his gaze back on me with a hitch of his eyebrows. "Big plans this weekend. Lots of yard work."

I fold my arms across my chest, leaning against the open door frame. "And you don't have a…_hedge trimmer_ of your own." It's more of a disbelieving statement calling him out than an actual question, though it takes more than a little effort to say it with a straight face. Peeta smiles again, and I notice the way his eyes crinkle a little at the corners when he does. His ridiculously blue eyes that sparkle back at me in the setting sunlight.

"Nope."

I stare doubtfully at him for a beat, thinking it's awfully convenient of him to need to drop by on a Friday night for a mundane garden tool that might cost him a hundred bucks—chump change for a millionaire—at the hardware store. I flip the loose braid I'd quickly tied after my shower over my shoulder, giving him a disinterested shrug.

"Well, it's probably in the shed."

He's looking at me expectantly, and I know Peeta wants me to invite—or at least _let_—him in. But I'm not budging, and I don't move from my position blocking the doorway. Finally, he looks down at his feet, laughing as if in disbelief, and shakes his head.

"Prim really wasn't kidding when she said it'd be best to let you cool off for a while, huh?"

This doesn't help his cause. I scowl fiercely at him. Because I don't like that Prim said anything at all to him. I hate the idea, actually.

But as Peeta's eyes go wide at my deepening frown, I realize I've succeeded in scaring him. And I know that this should be a good thing; that it should make him ignore me, and make him go away. So I'm not happy that it also makes me feel a pang of guilt in the pit of my stomach. Though I know why I feel it—because honestly, it's probably my fault Prim talked to Peeta in the first place. And knowing her, she'd most likely been the one to approach Peeta. She'd first tried to get me to talk about it—about Peeta kissing me—later on that night during the reception when I'd helped her with her dress in the bathroom, and I'd refused. I'd told her that it was her night, her wedding day. And that there was absolutely nothing that needed to be said about Peeta Mellark. She'd looked at me and laughed, but had left it alone, save for a good natured comment about it devastating Delly and the crush she had on Peeta. I'd quickly, probably too quickly in hindsight, quipped that Peeta was _all hers tonight_, before changing subjects to whether she needed another drink in the same breath. So I guess I'd forced her hand and made her turn to Peeta as her source of information.

Though Peeta—and Prim, for that matter—are both sorely wrong if they think that all I need is a little time to forgive him. Even if he is the dog whisperer with Buttercup's still sitting silently at his feet—a feat I haven't accomplished all week. And even if he is still entirely too handsome for his own good, even without the tux. And especially even though I can't stop picturing his mouth, currently formed in a tentative, lopsided smile, pressed up against mine.

I feel my expression soften a little as I sigh. And I wrap Prim's sweater around me a little tighter, suddenly feeling self-conscious of my appearance, my hair still slightly damp, in just a pair of athletic shorts and flip flops, under Peeta's stare.

"Look, I don't know why you're really here, but I'm not—"

"Katniss, relax. I'm not going to kiss you again, okay?" Peeta cuts me off, his lips upturning further into a smirk as he speaks with a playful reassurance.

I sigh, this time feeling less guilty and more annoyed. Though I'm still thinking about his lips.

But before I have time respond, a beat up sedan with an Antonio's Pizza sign slapped on the hood pulls in behind Peeta's Range Rover. And Buttercup reacts like the Buttercup I've spent the last five days with—with loud barks and misguided overprotectiveness. Peeta reacts just as quickly though, grabbing the dog by his collar and catching him before he can run off toward the actual pizza delivery guy. And then he attempts to hand him off to me.

"Here, you grab the dog. I'll grab dinner." His smirk's turned into a full-fledged grin, most likely at the realization that I don't have much of a choice. And he's already reaching for his wallet as soon as I reluctantly take the dog from him, yanking the beast by his collar to get him successfully back inside the front door, inwardly cursing the pizza guy's terrible timing. "Don't bother," I tell him over my shoulder. "It's prepaid."

* * *

I'm pretty sure Peeta managed to pick up the tab anyway, judging by his smile when he saunters into the kitchen where I'm scooping Buttercup's dog food into his bowl. I turn at the sound of him, watching him hold the pizza in both hands, eying both me and the food.

"This seems like an awfully big pizza for one person."

I roll my eyes, placing Buttercup's food bowl down for him before addressing Peeta glibly. "I like leftovers."

Peeta laughs, moving next to me at the kitchen's island, where I've begun working on opening a bottle of red wine. He places the box on the marbled granite counter, and just the smell of the cheese and the sauce and the grease makes my stomach rumble. And although I'm hungry, and while I'm concentrating on screwing a corkscrew into this bottle right now, what's forefront in my mind is Peeta's presence. Because he's the closest he's been to me since…well, since he kissed me, and I hate it, but my skin prickles at only the inches between us.

"Let me guess," I sigh, as I wiggle the cork out of the bottle with a satisfactory pop. "You haven't eaten dinner yet."

I look to my left and see a pair of smiling eyes watching me. He shakes his head.

I sigh again, more exaggerated this time. "Would you like to stay for dinner?" It might be the most reluctant invitation I've ever given. Though this doesn't stop Peeta from grinning.

"I thought you'd never ask."

* * *

We eat outside on Prim and Thom's back patio. With the light breeze, it's a perfect June evening. The trees are lush and green, and Thom's meticulously cared for lawn is perfectly manicured while the flowers Prim's planted are in full bloom. It's not exactly the couch and whatever's playing on Showtime tonight, but I guess it could be worse.

Buttercup's joined us, and lays at Peeta's feet under the table, and I can't help but ask what gives with the dog liking him so much. Peeta shakes his head with an eyebrow raise as he reaches for the bottle of wine, pouring himself a healthy glass before topping mine off.

"You do realize that not everyone hates me like you hate me, right?"

I snort. "Are you comparing your entourage of women to golden doodles?" I take a piece of pizza from the box, placing it on my plate before swiping a pepperoni off of it and popping it into my mouth as I watch Peeta's amused reaction. He sips his wine then scratches his chin.

"I think you might be giving me more credit than I deserve. I wouldn't describe it as an entourage, per se." Then Peeta looks at me pointedly. "And to be fair, there's only one that follows me around like a puppy."

I chew carefully before swallowing. Delly. He means Delly.

This is getting dangerously close to off limits territory for me.

"So," I say, picking up my pizza. "How's work been this week without Thom?"

There. Can there really be anything safer than talking about paint? I'm patting myself on the back for the redirection of conversation when Peeta shrugs, his expression letting me know he knows exactly what I've just done.

"It's fine," he tells me simply. "As much as Thom likes to think otherwise, this company can run just fine without him from time to time." Despite my best efforts, a smile creeps across my face. Because that sounds like Thom to a tee.

"How was work for you?" He asks.

"We dissected frogs," I tell him nonchalantly, enjoying the twist of his jaw as Peeta tries to bite into the pizza and look unaffected.

"That's…pleasant," he responds with a hard swallow.

I shrug with a raise of my eyebrow, biting back my smile. "It's certainly more interesting than worms."

At this, Peeta genuinely laughs, wiping his hands on his paper napkin. "You know, for some reason, imagining you in a room full of thirteen year olds with scalpels and the smell of formaldehyde isn't actually that hard to do."

"I have no idea what you mean by that," I tell him, shaking my head as I take a healthy gulp of wine. I can't help but be slightly intrigued, because while my biology degree means I have no qualms about operating on dead things in order to study them, it can be hard to keep my patience when teaching whiney preteenagers. Although the assistant principal Mr. Abernathy, who insists on assigning me seventh graders, thinks it's hilarious to see me try.

"I _mean_," Peeta begins, looking at me with a dangerous glint in his eye from over his wine glass, "that you seem like the type of person who doesn't have a problem cutting something open just to rip its heart out."

My mouth drops.

It's exactly the reaction he's looking for from me, judging by his still-gleaming eyes. I purse my lips back together quickly, shrugging him off like his words have no effect. Because I have no interest in giving him what he wants. Then I narrow my eyes pointedly.

"Worms don't actually have hearts, you know."

He laughs again, his blue eyes and easy smile attempting to do things I don't want them to from across the patio table. _Ugh._ Why is he here right now? All I did was ask him if he wanted a stupid piece of pizza after he'd basically invited himself in. He's the one who helped himself to the glass of wine. So why does he insist on talking to me, or worse, _flirting_ with me?

Especially when I'm clearly upset with him. And why does my irritation seem to amuse him so much?

"I don't think I like how my analogy's been turned around on me," he tells me, still smiling.

I simply sip my wine, shrugging at him, because that's his problem. Yet for some reason, even calling him a heartless worm doesn't deter Peeta from continuing to talk to me.

"So what about this weekend? Any big plans?"

I don't know what makes me go in for the kill. Is it my annoyance that he's here at all in the first place? Is it my fear that he's flirting with me and, on a certain level, I'm allowing it? Is it my need to push him far, far away because I know nothing good will come of him getting any closer?

"I have a date."

It's not technically lying when I really am supposed to be meeting an attractive guy at a coffee shop tomorrow night, right? Never mind that the attractive guy is my teaching partner at the middle school and we're really just meeting to go over our final class project lesson plans. Though in my defense, Finnick _had_ winked and called it a date when we made the plans earlier this week.

If Peeta has any sort of reaction, it leaves his face too quickly to notice; replaced instead by a smirk as he leans in, resting his elbows on the table. "This is fun and all, but you know it's not a date right?"

I scowl, sure my face is red with anger. And maybe a little bit of a flush too. This is why I hate Peeta Mellark. He's always one step ahead, always so sure footed and able to turn the tables so smoothly. It's not fair. I don't want him to get under my skin. I don't want to try and scare him away with fake date plans. And I _really _don't want to think he's cute, sitting across a patio table from me in a faded college t-shirt that stretches across his chest perfectly and his blond hair splayed casually across his forehead.

I want him to have never kissed me in the first place. And it'd be really great if the butterflies would go away too.

"Why are you even here? Because if it's really for Thom's hedge trimmer, it's in the shed," I cry out, flailing my arm in the direction of the back of the yard.

The amusement from Peeta's face falls at my outburst, and he makes an almost duck-like face as he blows air out of his mouth, studying me as I lean back into my seat, attempting to reign in my irritation.

"Katniss. Why do I bother you so much?" I think it's a serious question.

I fold my arms across my chest defensively.

"You don't."

Peeta raises an eyebrow. He's called me a liar before. And he's clearly doing it again.

I sigh. I honestly don't know why he bothers me. Usually, I'm perfectly indifferent to most people.

"Why are you so mad that I kissed you, then?"

I scrunch my nose, like it's the dumbest question in the world. He can't be serious. That much has to be obvious. So I answer it with one of my own.

"Why_ did_ you kiss me?"

Peeta pushes his plate away from him, breaking my gaze to watch his hands perform the action.

"I don't know. Because I wanted to?" His voice is softer, and less confident.

"So you just go around kissing people whenever you feel like it?" I ask, incredulously, watching him. I don't understand this mentality whatsoever. And if that's really the case, just how many pairs of lips has Peeta assaulted anyway?

"Katniss," he sighs, easing back into the cushioned patio chair and locking his now serious blue gaze on my skeptical gray one. "All I can say is that I'm sorry if I upset you. I thought we were having fun. I thought you—well, I guess I thought something else." He exhales, and I watch the air pass his lips. "I was wrong. So I'm sorry."

I'm still considering him, and I allow his apology to sink in, thinking that he sounds sincere. But then again, I'm more than aware that Peeta can sound real and genuine at the drop of a hat—even when he's not. Besides, even if he's telling the truth, since when is just wanting to kiss someone a good enough reason to actually do it?

"I don't just kiss people for fun, Peeta." I tell him, taking a long sip of my wine, while attempting to convey my superiority by squaring my shoulders and narrowing my eyes. It'd be easier to do if he didn't look so good right now—casually reaching for his own glass of wine, comfortable and relaxed in the late evening glow of summer sun. So I look past him, unable to meet his gaze, instead taking in the hues of red and orange and wisps of white in the sky behind him. And I breathe in the breeze that comes with the warm scents of summer while attempting to ignore that tension that hangs in the air along with the smell of cut grass and fresh flowers. All while trying not to think too much about what the _something else_ Peeta thought was.

I hear Peeta chuckle, and he sips his drink before putting it back down on the table, leaning back into me and requiring my attention again.

"Why _do_ you kiss people then?" he asks. "Because I'd hate to be the guy who you _don't_ kiss for fun."

_Yeah, well, I hate being the girl who got kissed to make another girl go away. _It's what I'm thinking, but I can't bring myself to say it out loud. I don't know why. Maybe because I don't want Peeta to think I'm hurt or wounded by it, because I'm not. I'm just annoyed. At least, that's why I decide my pulse is still picking up steam. Annoyance. And not _something else_.

"None of your business," I say curtly, jutting out my chin at him. Just like it's none of my business whether he slept with Delly. Or where he ended up after the reception that allowed him to roll into the next morning's brunch looking pleasantly disheveled.

Peeta tilts his head to the side slightly, not giving in. "So you get to know why I kissed you, but I don't get to know why you kissed me back?"

I freeze. It's the question I've been avoiding asking myself all week. And it just falls easily out of Peeta Mellark's mouth, as if it's no big deal. As if I'd just kissed him back _for fun_ too.

But that's the problem. I don't know why I kissed him back. I didn't have a good reason to, that's for sure. And without a good reason to, I shouldn't have done it.

Though he shouldn't have kissed me in the first place.

_We_ shouldn't have kissed.

And I decide he needs to know that.

"I think all that matters now is that it was obviously a mistake," I finally respond, shaking my head at him. I watch him blink, looking away for half a second before looking back at me, pushing his bottom lip out slightly as he fights a frown with a forced breath of a laugh and a short nod.

"Okay, Katniss. You're right. It was a mistake." As he speaks, there's a rawness to his voice that I don't recognize.

But now we've both agreed. It was a mistake.

It meant nothing.

"Right," I agree, nodding resolutely. And, without anything else to say, I reach for my half eaten slice of pizza, taking a bite.

"So what about this guy you're going out on a date with tomorrow? Are you going to kiss _him_?"

I almost choke. But I manage to chew, squinting my eyes at him as the life comes back to his expression, forever enjoying catching me off guard. I swallow. And I smile sweetly at him. "Probably."

Peeta laughs, tossing his napkin down on his empty plate. "You're the worst liar I've ever met. You know that, right?"

"Yeah, well, you're the best liar I've ever met," I mumble through a mouthful of cheese and sauce and dough. And it's not a compliment.

Although Peeta still looks at me appreciatively. And as if nothing I say tonight is going to discourage him. His words echo my thoughts. "You're really going to take a lot of convincing, aren't you?"

With the way he looks as he says it, like he's not denying his reputation, and that maybe—just maybe—he's slightly embarrassed by it, I can't help but crack a smile. It's good to know we both know it's true then—that I have a terrible poker face while his is_ too_ good. Kind of like how I can barely manage to score homework plans with my teaching partner on a Saturday night, and Peeta's practically Panem's most eligible bachelor. And that I live in a modest one bedroom apartment across town, while Peeta's millionaire. Legitimately, all we have in common is Prim and Thom. We have no business hanging out with one another without them.

And yet, even though I have no idea how or why it happens, we manage to kill a Friday night together.

* * *

Peeta lingers outside with me as I finish eating. And as he swallows the rest of his wine, he jokingly asks what's for dessert. I shake my head at him, lifting up my glass and cheers-ing the air in demonstration before taking a large sip that polishes off my drink too.

He smiles lazily at me, gazing down at the dog still resting comfortably at his feet.

"C'mon. Let's go for a walk." As if on cue, Buttercup's gigantic, floppy ears perk up. Because Peeta's said the magic word. And it's rule number one of dog owning—and dog watching—that if you say the _w-a-l-k_ word, you have to follow through.

I sigh. He's trapped me. It's not like I can't agree now; I was going to have to take Buttercup on a walk at some point tonight anyway. It wasn't supposed to be a two person job though. But when we head out, it's actually kind of a relief to have Peeta with us, because he's capable of controlling the dog so that no one ends up being dragged between squirrels and fire hydrants.

We end up walking to an ice cream store less than a mile away. It's dusk by the time we get there, and dark by the time we head back, cones in hand. And I'm not entirely sure, but I think I might be enjoying myself. Although if anyone were to ever ask me, I'd deny this feeling completely.

I lick my scoop of butter pecan as we walk, and he skillfully juggles Buttercup between bites of rocky road. I try not to stare, focusing on the well-lit neighborhood streets instead.

"I'm surprised you don't have better things to do with your Friday nights," I chide him, after a few minutes of silence.

Peeta chuckles softly.

"I think there's a lot about me that would surprise you if you gave me the chance."

And even though I might not completely hate tonight, I laugh. Because giving Peeta Mellark a chance isn't something that's going to happen any time soon.

* * *

The coffee shop around the corner from my middle school is blissfully uncrowded for a Saturday night. And Finnick and I are spread out in a spacious booth with papers and computers occupying our table along with my tea, his espresso, and a huge chocolate chip cookie we agreed to split.

Finnick's great. He's unnecessarily good looking, although he doesn't know it. His green eyes hide behind wire rimmed glasses, and his coppery hair can be untamed at school sometimes, but tonight, it looks nice. And he's dressed casually, in a pair of jeans with an unzipped hooded sweat shirt over a plain t-shirt. I'm not much fancier, in just a pair of jeans and a simple top, because despite my best efforts to convince Peeta otherwise, this is definitely not a date.

We've worked together for two years now, since Finnick transferred from Panem's other middle school. He's a few years older, but we've bonded over bad break ups and trying to get sixth, seventh, and eighth graders to care about things like photosynthesis. We're pretty good friends, actually.

Though when he asks how my Friday night went, I don't mention Peeta. Nor does he know I made out with him on the dance floor at my sister's wedding. First of all, none of it seems relevant. And second of all, I've really only ever told Finnick about one guy in my life. And that was hard enough as it was. Mostly, I let him talk about the youth swim team he coaches and how excited he seems for summer to get here because it means swimming lessons and life guarding at the community pool. Teachers like us all have summer jobs—while Finnick's happens to be the pool, mine's working three days a week at the YMCA.

We're finishing up our final project's lesson plan—which now includes requiring our students to build or create something other than a poster or a power point for their year-in-review presentations—when Finnick attempts to casually ask about the only guy I've ever told him about. I'm slurping my now cold tea while he picks at the rest of the cookie as we broach the touchy subject of Gale.

"So. What's going on with the doomsday wedding?"

I roll my eyes at Finnick's characterization of the wedding I have to attend two weeks from now. Although I _have_ been dreading it for the last six weeks since receiving the invitation.

"Well, I'm still planning on going," I laugh, although admittedly, it comes out sounding kind of strangled.

Finnick sees right through my sad attempt at a brave face.

"You can't go alone. Are you out of you mind?"

I sigh, throwing up my hands. "I have to go, Finnick. If I don't…I just look…even more pathetic."

Finnick makes a face, his very white teeth biting into his bottom lip as his very green eyes stare at me with concern. "More pathetic than showing up at a wedding alone when your ex fiancé will be there with his new fiancé?" He shakes his head, completely unaccepting of this scenario. "Nope. You need a date. And you're taking me with you."

"What?" My eyes go wide at Finnick essentially demanding, rather than offering, to be my date. Because while we're friends, I didn't realize we were friends like _that._

He grins, with a lighthearted shrug. "I'm a great date. I hold doors. I dance. I even own a suit."

I laugh, and while I know that he's genuinely offering, there are so many other…factors to consider. And I don't want to put him in an awkward position. Because Darius's wedding is going to be nothing short of uncomfortable and stressful and awful. Not to mention embarrassing.

Finnick reads me like a book. "Katniss. Seriously. I'd expect you to do this for me if it were Johanna we were talking about." He raises an eyebrow playfully. "Besides, do you have any other options in your quest to make that stupid ex of yours insanely jealous?"

_Nope. No other options. At all._

I'm obviously grateful for his offer. More than grateful, actually—because looking at Finnick and his movie star face with his unassuming, good-natured smile, I also feel relieved, because with him on my arm, maybe I really won't feel like such a loser when I have to face Gale for the first time in over six months. But I'm not expecting to also feel a weird twist of guilt at the thought of taking Finnick as my date.

And ultimately, it's the misplaced guilt that makes me agree to his offer.

* * *

A/N: The support for this story has floored me. (It's a blast to write, by the way. ;) ) Thank you all for reading, and reviewing, and letting me know what you think. And if you'd like, come find me on tumblr. I'm c-r-roberts.


	3. Chapter 3

We're picking out nail colors when I tell Prim about Finnick.

"Wait, you're what?" she asks, looking at me like I'm suddenly a stranger to her. I glance quickly at her prying blue eyes before focusing on whether I should go with "Dead of Night" or "Black to Basics."

"I'm taking a date," I repeat with a shrug. "You've met Finnick. He was at that happy hour this spring?" Suddenly "After Dark" catches my eye and I pick it up, staring at it like it's significantly more interesting than a bottle of nail polish.

Prim inches closer to me, and I know she's still considering me carefully. "Finnick. Your teaching partner? He's...cute." I see her hand move to swipe an obnoxiously pink bottle off the display shelf.

I snort. "You sound so surprised." Though I'm not sure whether she's more stunned that my date's good looking, or that I have a date at all.

"No, it's not that," Prim sighs, impatiently clucking her tongue at me as I clutch the almost black nail color in my hand, having made my decision. She peruses the shelf for two seconds before throwing a pale beige color at me instead. "This will go better with your dress," she insists, before turning back to what she thinks is her real area of expertise. My love life.

"I honestly didn't know you were planning on taking a date is all."

As we're escorted to our stations by our nail technicians, I give in to her nail polish suggestion while simultaneously fighting her on our current topic of conversation.

"You know, I do manage to get a date from time to time." It almost feels wrong, pretending that Finnick is a real date. But sometimes, even though I know I shouldn't, I feel like I have to justify myself in front of my little sister. Because I didn't get married at 25. Because I didn't get married _at all_. And while, for the most part, I'm genuinely okay with that, sometimes I worry she thinks I'm still wounded. Even though I'm fine_._

We slide into our adjoining seats, and I see her shake her head at me, the corners of her pink lips turning up slightly. "That's not what I meant and you know it. I just thought that if you were going to take someone with you that you'd have someone else in mind."

Immediately, my stomach feels like it's twisting into one big knot. _Oh god, he told them, didn't he_? He told them about our pseudo date that he forced me into having with him. I haven't seen Prim since she and Thom got back this past Monday; I've been busy with grades and final projects and school ending on Wednesday. We'd set up this nail appointment and lunch to catch up—Prim still on extended vacation from work because of the wedding and honeymoon, and me on my second full day of summer.

But they—or, at least Thom—must have talked to Peeta by now. And he must have fed them false information.

I narrow my eyes at my sister. "Whatever he told you about last Friday, it's not true."

Prim perks an eyebrow, giving over her hands to her waiting manicurist. "What's not true?"

I let my manicurist take my hands in hers too, letting her distract my gaze as I watch her frown at my uneven filing. _Fuck. _Maybe I'd jumped to conclusions too soon.

"Nothing," I mutter under my breath.

"Wait. Have you seen him since the wedding?" The excitement in Prim's voice makes me sigh, still not bothering to look back her way as my nail beds are slathered with lotion and dunked into the small water bowl in front of me.

"Prim, I seriously don't know why you seem to be supporting this. He's…infuriating. And an idiot. And annoying. And—"

"—And good looking and charming and clearly interested in you," Prim laughs. "And so you're scared."

That's enough to get my attention. I glare at her. But clearly, I'm not that intimidating, because my sister just shrugs at me. "It's okay to like someone you know. It's been over a year."

My manicurist pulls one of my hands from the water to start attacking my cuticles with her tweezer-like contraption.

"I _do not_ like Peeta," I say through gritted teeth.

Why is she pushing this so hard? Why is she suddenly Peeta Mellark's biggest fan? She's the one who used to complain about his playboy reputation, and grumble about him finally settling down so she and Thom didn't have to wonder who was showing up to dinner with him. So what am I missing?

"You really don't think he's cute? Not even a little bit?"

"Prim, I don't care how cute he is," I finally snap, and the lady doing my nails has to tug at my hand to keep it still with an annoyed look. "So stop playing matchmaker or whatever you think it is you're doing."

"I just want to see you happy," she sighs, forever unphased by my annoyed outbursts.

I make a face. "And you think I'd be happy with _Peeta_?" The disgust in my voice makes Prim laugh.

"You seemed pretty happy with him at the wedding, you know. Even Thom said something about it."

"Well, you can tell Thom to stop playing matchmaker too, then."

"Katniss, chill out. We're not…trying to set you up or anything. We just thought…"

I stare at Prim, and her pretty rosy cheeks and sweet blue eyes, her blonde hair tucked neatly behind her ears as she smiles back at me with a shrug. "We just thought you looked nice together. And we love both of you and..."

I don't let her finish.

"Prim," I say softly, but firmly. "I have enough to worry about right now without you and your husband's misguided attempts at finding the perfect double date."

Prim rolls her eyes at me. But she also backs off.

"Fine. Tell me more about Finnick then."

"He's just a friend," I answer quickly, surprising myself at how easily I've dismissed the idea of Finnick as an actual romantic prospect. "But when he offered to go with me to the wedding, I figured it wouldn't hurt to have someone with me."

The air shifts between us, any levity to our banter over a certain best friend deflating when she finally asks the question I _really_ don't want her to ask.

"Are you going to be okay? Seeing him?"

We should be talking about the fabulous meals she and Thom ate on their honeymoon, or how lavish their suite was, or how first class is absolutely the only way to fly, or anything else that we could possibly talk about besides _this._ I bite the inside of my cheek, turning my head in order to give her a very serious warning look.

"Prim. I'm fine."

"Katniss." Her frown tells me she thinks otherwise.

I sigh. "Like you said, it's been over a year."

"Can I ask you something?" Prim's voice is softer now.

I sigh again, shrugging just enough to acquiesce, but not enough to upset the woman who's painting me. And I also note that Prim's choice of "Blushing Bare Skin" is turning out pretty well, too.

"Do you ever wish…you and Gale…"

"No," I tell her definitively before she can even finish her question. It's true. I don't. Sometimes I find myself wondering where I'd be, what I'd be doing, or what it'd be like if we'd gone through with it and gotten married last year. But I never actually _wish_ we had.

Both of us get quiet for too long of a moment.

"Good," she finally responds, sounding satisfied. And as if she believes me. Then she smiles. "He's going to freak out seeing you with a date, right?"

I smirk, knowing Gale more than well enough to know that Prim's absolutely right. "Probably."

"Good." She says again, her smile growing wider.

And as our manicures finish up, our polish left to dry, I'm finally able to steer the conversation away from me. "So what are the newlyweds doing this weekend?"

"Oh. We're headed up to the lake house tonight, actually," she tells me nonchalantly.

Of course. I should have known they'd be jetsoning up to the lake house for a weekend. Thom spends half his summer there. To his credit, he could probably afford something even more lavish than the three bedroom cottage he owns two hours away on Coldwater Lake, but owning two homes, three cars, two jet skis and a boat is still a little much for someone who lives in a one bedroom apartment and came from nothing to comprehend.

"That sounds relaxing," I manage to answer, silently thinking they've just spent two weeks relaxing, and trying not to sound like I'm passing judgment. I get concerned because it feels like Prim sometimes forgets that she came from nothing too. Not that she's not grateful for what she has now, and not that she or Thom are obnoxious about their wealth, but as she lists off the things they plan on doing this weekend—refilling the pool, staining the dock, taking the boat to the other side of the lake—it's hard not to think she falls into this life a little too easily.

And her problem is wanting me to fall into that life a little too easily with her.

* * *

The next day, I learn that Finnick Odair in a suit is quite possibly the best looking thing I've ever seen. I'm sure I'm gawking as he greets me at my apartment door, standing there in a sharp black suit and tie, his hair tamed and his green eyes free to sparkle brightly because he's left his glasses at home. I mean, I've always known he was handsome, _too _handsome, even in rumpled khakis and gym shoes. But at the same time, he's always been…Finnick. Finnick, who eats tuna fish sandwiches for lunch and doesn't care if he's 34 and too old for the chocolate milk he always buys to go with them. The same Finnick who makes really lame jokes that none of his students think are funny, although he laughs like they're hysterical anyway. So, while he certainly has his own brand of charm to him, I wasn't expecting someone who looks like a movie star to show up at my front door tonight.

He grins at me. "Ready to make them eat their hearts out?"

I shake my head at him, still taking him in. I'd honestly have been in awe if he'd just matched his belt to his shoes. "Why don't you wear suits to work? You should wear suits to work."

Finnick laughs lightly, raising an eyebrow. "You should see me in my birthday suit."

I roll my eyes but also fight a blush, not needing any extra gratuitous imagery of my incredibly attractive teaching partner.

"But I figured I should step it up tonight, if I was going to make anyone believe I'd be lucky enough to be your date." I roll my eyes again, but look down at myself subconsciously as I do, smoothing the skirt of my dress. I'm borrowing one of Prim's dresses tonight—a simple, but beautiful sleeveless lace sheath dress that hugs my curves, from where it skims across my collar bone to where it hits a few inches above my knees. I'd been worried the navy color wouldn't look as good on me and my olive skin tone and dark hair, because it's the kind of dress that makes Prim's blue eyes pop and offsets her pretty milky skin perfectly. But, she'd been right. It looks good on me too.

"You look stunning, Katniss."

I look back up into Finnick's eyes, which shine another shade of emerald as he smiles sheepishly at me. I smile sheepishly too. "Are you sure you want to go through with this?" I ask, only half kidding. I've been fighting with crawling back under my covers and hiding in bed until well past tomorrow morning all day.

But Finnick just shakes his head at me, gesturing with his hand in a way that suggests he's attempting to coax me out of my doorway. "Oh no. I am more than sure that I want to do this. So let's get moving, my little heartbreaker."

Things feel slightly more normal when we slide into Finnick's Prius—which I notice he's cleaned; the papers usually strewn about the backseat nowhere to be found—because at least we've done this before. We've driven places together. Not _together _together, like we're pretending to be tonight, but there's some comfort level to knowing that Finnick's radio is perpetually stuck to Panem's classic rock station. And as we make the short drive over to the church, the Stones' _Gimme Shelter_ playing softly in the background, Finnick asks how we're all ending up at this wedding together anyway.

"We all went to high school together," I tell him, inadvertently tapping my nude-heeled foot to the beat, watching Finnick smile as he catches me doing it, because he doesn't know that I'm just teasing him when I call him _old_ for listening to the classics. "Well, Darius and I went to college together too, actually." Really, if Darius and I hadn't have gone to college together, and we hadn't shared many rides back and forth from campus, I'd never have agreed to attend his wedding. Because my ties to my high school days aren't exactly very strong.

Not any more, at least.

"And Darius is marrying who?"

I laugh. Because while Darius is a great guy, and I'm happy for him, he's also marrying a bit of a prima donna. But I guess that comes with the territory of being the police chief's son, with aspirations to run for mayor someday. A trophy wife. "I swear to god, her real name is Glimmer. That's all I know about her though, really."

Finnick raises an eyebrow. "This is going to be more fun than I originally thought, isn't it?"

* * *

My heart sinks when I see them. They sit three rows up and four seats over from us. I do my best not to stare. I really do. I try not to focus on the back of his neck, shaking off my ridiculous thoughts of it looking like he could use a trim because his hair's getting too long. Just like I try not to study her perfectly curled blonde hair and wonder just what she has that I don't. Other than curly blonde hair, of course.

Finnick must notice my preoccupation. And he also notices the direction of my stare. Maybe I should tense when he reaches for my hand, clenched against my knee, but I don't. I let him take it. And I let him hold it. Through watching the bride's dress that's so sparkly it—ugh—_glimmers_ as she walks down the aisle, through the self-written vows that make us both cringe, and then even after the ceremony ends and we're filing out of our pew. And though I make it look as though I don't see; I know Gale sees us. And it's only after he sees us that he takes Madge's hand in his own too.

"So. That's them, huh?" Finnick asks once we're back in his car.

"That's them," I nod, as we watch the crowd disperse, Gale and Madge included. Finnick lets his car idle for a moment after he turns it on.

"Well, he doesn't seem like anything special. Remind me again why you almost married him?"

I laugh despite myself, finally breaking my stare from my quintessentially tall, dark and handsome ex, and I look over to Finnick, who's grinning. "Yeah, I really dodged a bullet, right?"

"Listen to me. You're going to be fine. You have the upper hand." His tone's more serious now as he puts the car in reverse to back out of our spot.

"Finnick. He left me a month before our wedding for her. And now _they're_ getting married. Explain to me how I have the upper hand again?"

Finnick's still grinning. "Simple. You couldn't be happier for them. You couldn't care less about him. You wish them only the best. It'll drive him—_them_—both nuts." Then he gives me a mischievous, yet somehow reassuring, eyebrow raise when he sees me considering this. "Don't worry. I'm your secret weapon."

He's more than a secret weapon. He's practically my savior at the reception. And as it turns out, it's a good thing I brought him. Because I need one.

Gale and Madge are already at the cocktail hour when we arrive. This is probably because it took five minutes for us to get out of the car once we pulled into the golf course where Darius's reception is being held. But Finnick wanted to be sure I was ready; and he wanted to warn me that if he does anything rash, like, _oh, pretend to be my long term boyfriend_, I should just go with it. I don't have the heart to tell him that sounds like a terrible idea. And so, between the ceremony and the reception, I've picked up a boyfriend.

You'd think all of us would be more spacially aware of one another, especially in a crowded room of almost 150 other people. At least, I know I'd been planning on avoiding them. But as Finnick and I swipe our first champagne glasses from a server carrying them around on a tray, we bump right into them. Standing right behind us, almost as if they've sought us out.

What are you supposed to feel like, interacting with the man you spent eight years of your life with, a year after you called off your own wedding so he could start a legitimate relationship with one of your only friends? And by legitimate, I mean one that didn't require sneaking around behind my back.

Well, for starters, I feel like downing the glass of champagne in my hand, although I resign myself to just a healthy sip.

"Hi," Gale says uncomfortably, frowning as Finnick practically snuggles up against me, sliding his arm around my waist. It's actually surprising how easily I react to it, not tensing at his touch or our unusual proximity. Maybe it's because I'm distracted by Gale's fierce gray eyes. And his fiancé's pert nose and plump lips, which she's currently chewing on nervously.

"Hi," I manage to respond, wondering if my greeting sounds as strangled as it feels.

"Hi," Finnick chimes in too, and I brace myself for what's about to happen. "I'm Finnick." He smiles charmingly.

I've known Gale long enough to read him like a book. And I know exactly what he's thinking. _Who the fuck is Finnick?_

It gives me just enough confidence to explain to him exactly who Finnick is. "Oh, sorry," I apologize with a sheepish laugh. "This is Gale, and his fiancé Madge," I tell Finnick, who pretends like he doesn't know that already. "We…went to high school together with the groom." I turn back to Gale and Madge, and let their blank stares settle before continuing. "And this is Finnick. My boyfriend."

Madge's poker face is worse than her fiancé's, and I take a little bit of pleasure watching her stop chewing her bottom lip so that it can fall slightly as she tries not to gape. Maybe Finnick's idea wasn't such a terrible idea after all. This could be…fun.

"Nice to meet you," Gale says quickly, not bothering to offer Finnick a hand and instead refocusing his attention on me. And frowning. Again. "We're uh, at the same table tonight. I just thought you might like to know."

Of course. Almost two hundred people at this wedding and I'm going to have to sit next to my ex fucking fiancé. No wonder Gale and Madge hadn't tried their hand at avoidance. There's no point. Darius and Glimmer apparently want us to all be best friends before this night is over. And even though I want to scream, or worse—bolt—I do my best to shrug it off as if it's no big deal.

"Well, it's not like we know a ton of other people here." It's true. I don't recognize any other familiar faces from high school. But it's still pretty bad decorum to sit two exes at the same table.

Gale nods, glancing at Madge impatiently. "Right," he agrees, turning back to focus on us, almost unnoticeably lifting his eyebrow at me as Finnick sips his drink perfectly obliviously. I fight to keep my face straight, because Finnick's playing it so well. "But we figured we'd get the awkward hellos out of the way now."

"Why would they be awkward?" Finnick asks innocently.

"They're not," I agree, smiling at the couple who both fidget anxiously. It feels good to make them so out of their element, since clearly they were expecting to find me a little more wounded. Even if it's obviously a straight up lie—because things could not possibly get any more awkward right now.

And then I hear his voice from across the room.

It makes no sense. There's no reason for him, or his voice, to be here. Absolutely none. At first I think my ears are playing tricks on me, but then I hear him introduce himself to someone, and I know that it's really him. Unless this town is unfortunate enough to be home to not one, but two Peeta Mellarks.

I must tense up, because Finnick shoots me a quick look of concern. I feel him rub the small of my back gently, meant to be a simple gesture of reassurance, probably thinking it's just the stress of talking with Gale and Madge. Which I guess I'm going to have to let him go on believing, since there's no way I can explain who Peeta is to him now. Although it's strange; because for some reason I immediately become preoccupied with how I'm going to explain who _Finnick_ is to _Peeta_.

"So. You two know each other from teaching?" Gale's steel eyes glance between the two of us suspiciously, and I look up from my shoes and the floor as his question knocks me back into focus. I must have missed a chunk of conversation to be receiving that question, and I've got nothing to offer but an uncomfortable smile in response. But Finnick, thank god for Finnick.

Finnick nods. "We've been friends for a long time. But _this_," he says, snaking his arm back around my waist to draw me in closer to him as if to prove a point, "is new. Well, at least officially. I've been trying to get Katniss to notice me for over a year," he chuckles.

_Over a year._

I might actually love Finnick. And Gale, with all of the brooding, possessive self-entitlement his eyes can muster, looks at him with steam practically coming out of his ears. And it makes me momentarily forget about Peeta Mellarkand his robust laughter I can hear in the background. I turn to Finnick and smile my sweetest smile before shooting my coldest gaze to Gale.

"Well, maybe not _quite_ that long. But close."

Then I return my attention to Finnick, who right now, honestly deserves all of it. "If you're thirsty, we should probably make our way to the bar now before they have us take our seats," I tell him. "I think it closes during dinner service."

Finnick's eyes go wide in mock horror at the idea of the bar shutting down, and then he smiles another quietly charming smile at Gale and Madge. "I think that's our cue. We'll see you at dinner?" The future Mr. and Mrs. Hawthorne nod wordlessly, and I let out a breath I didn't even know I was holding as I let Finnick whisk me away from them.

"How am I doing so far?" he whispers in my ear as we walk briskly toward the bar, his hand still around my waist. I catch his eyes, bright green with tempered amusement, and I know he knows he's doing just fine. But I smile at him gratefully anyway. I've never seen Finnick turn on the charm like this; his likability is palpable. And this is good. Because he's really going to need to be on his game if he's going to help me ward off not only Gale, but Peeta too.

As we move further away from Gale and Madge, it's an unfortunate reality that this means we're now closer to Peeta. And his…date. Peeta's brought a date. A willowy, beautiful date. And if he's noticed me by now, he's not showing any signs of it, chatting with a younger group of people he's circled with off to our right, sipping something on the rocks and introducing whoever the stunning brunette that's with him is.

Finnick catches the gaze of my direction, as well as the distraction on my face when I stare at him blankly after he asks me what I'd like to drink. "Oookay," he teases lightly, probably thinking I'm still in an ex-fiancé induced haze. "Let's get you something stiff, then."

But the last thing I need is alcohol.

I need an escape plan.

* * *

Our table of eight fills up quickly, as does the room, right after Finnick and I sit down. Two of Glimmer's friends from college join us first, introducing themselves as Marvel and Clove. Gale and Madge join us shortly after that, and Gale sits down right next to Finnick. I have to hide a smirk when Finnick shoots me a satisfied look. Though I don't have time to dwell on my new boyfriend sitting next to my ex, because I quickly become more concerned with the last couple seated at our table. And as I watch them approach, I have to wonder what the hell I ever did to Darius, because clearly, he hates me.

It's like I'm watching a train wreck—I can't look away. He's wearing a fitted gray suit with a white shirt and gray striped tie, smoothening it against his chest as they stop at our table. It looks good—better than good—against his blue eyes and a light tan. And the woman at his side is even more beautiful up close, with eyes greener than Finnick's, high cheek bones and a creamy pale complexion. The red dress she wears drapes her slim curves, and her smile's shy, but kind. I know it shouldn't be a competition, but I can't help but feel completely inadequate as my gaze flits to her.

The college friends seem to know Peeta. But other than a quick nod and a wave, he ignores them for now. Instead, he's looks directly at me.

"Hey Katniss." He's pulling his date's chair out for her as he says my name, greeting me casually. Like it's normal that we're at the same wedding, at the same table right now.

"Peeta," I say, just as coolly, working very hard not to squirm in my seat. For as indifferent as our attitudes are, the look between us is deliberate.

"You two know each other?" The words come from Gale's voice. I startle slightly, because I'm not expecting to hear from him, and look one seat down from Finnick. Gale's staring at Peeta with his signature cynical gaze.

Peeta's eyes study Gale momentarily and I watch his lips upturn into a confident grin. "Oh yeah. We go way back. This is Annie by the way," he tells the table as they take their seats. "My date."

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Finnick raising an eyebrow at me before going in for the kill and extending his own hand without my prompting.

"Finnick. Boyfriend."

_Uh oh._

I don't know what I'm expecting to read on Peeta's face. Certainly not amusement. But that's what's there as he smiles back at Finnick, throwing the tiniest of looks my way before shaking Finnick's hand firmly across the table.

"Pleasure to meet you, Finnick."

"So, how does everyone know each other?" Marvel asks obliviously, looking out over the table. "We all went to college with the bride," he explains, gesturing to Clove as well as Peeta. Which is easy enough, though it's a terrible question for the rest of us. I frown, looking around the table.

Gale's the first to answer, after another awkward glance my way.

"Madge and I—and Katniss too, we all went to high school with Darius." I guess that's the appropriate way to answer the question, but it still irks me. But instead of twisting my face in irritation, I suck down a big gulp of ice water, just as Clove starts to coo.

"Ohhh, high school sweethearts then? How sweet."

It's not even a close call, or a just a bad swallow—nope, I officially choke. On the ice water, on Clove's words. And it's not pretty, because I begin to cough and my eyes water, and Finnick stares at me with wide-eyed concern, not only because I might need the Heimlich, but also because he must know that this _sucks._

And as I begin to regain my composure, out of the corner of my watery eye, I see Madge smile uneasily at Clove. "Well, not exactly. We, um, just started dating last year."

At least she has the decency to stare into her place setting as she answers.

The table's silent for a moment before I hear Peeta pipe up. "My best friend married Katniss's sister."

My eyes fly up to his direction. So do the rest of the table's. "A couple of weeks ago now," he continues, and the look he gives me is a little too innocent. "Lots of quality time that night, right, Katniss?"

I cough my answer, my throat still trying to recover. "Um, yeah. Sure."

"Oh! I heard it was beautiful," Peeta's date—Annie—exclaims, blushing when I look at her, confused. Why would she have heard anything about my sister's wedding? It's not exactly pick up line material. But she seems genuine, and sheepish that she's said anything at all.

I open my mouth to agree with her, but all I end up doing is smiling softly in her direction because Peeta beats me to it. "It was," he responds with a nod before shooting Finnick a knowing smile. "We uh, missed you at the wedding, Finnick."

It's such a loaded question in so many ways. Maybe the rest of the table doesn't know it, but I do. And Peeta's blue eyes express a combination of confusion and a challenge. I don't know what to say. And I'm seriously debating attempting to choke on my water again if only for the distraction. But, because Finnick is truly soaring as my doting date tonight, he comes to my rescue yet again.

"Yeah, it's a shame I had to miss it. My cousin got married that weekend too. So we had to divide and conquer."

Inwardly, I breathe a sigh of relief. And Peeta seems to accept Finnick's answer, although they've entered some sort of brief stare off that makes me think Peeta's not going to let anything go easily. Not that I should be surprised by that realization. That's kind of his thing.

"Well, you missed your girlfriend give a hell of toast," Peeta says quietly, before changing the subject to the topic of Clove and Marvel's wedding they recently have themselves. Clove's happy chatter about the mundane details of their wedding at least gives me a reprieve, even if I don't pay particular attention to her talking. Though I'm sucked right back in when Clove notices the ring on Madge's finger—which by the way, looks nothing like the ring I once wore—and unwittingly launches a conversation about Madge and Gale's upcoming nuptials.

Madge looks at me guiltily, but engages anyway, telling Clove that they're getting married in October and that it's going to be a small wedding all while Gale stares into the bread basket, taking far too long deciding on which roll to take.

Finnick squeezes the area above my knee under the table gently. I know he's just trying to help, but it makes me startle. And as I look up, hoping no one noticed me jump, I watch Peeta's eyes dart away from me as if he didn't want me to catch him staring.

Seriously. Could tonight get any more complicated?

Thankfully, dinner arrives shortly after that, which is enough to shut us all up. At least for a little while.

* * *

At my first opportunity, (which is when Finnick excuses himself for the bathroom around the same time Peeta and Annie get stopped by a different table of guests on their way back from the coffee station), I pull my phone out of my un-usefully small purse, sending a furious message to my sister. My fingers click quickly underneath the table, half-blindly, as I look around to see if there's anyone to notice me. I'm still blissfully alone.

Katniss [9:07 PM]: _Did you know that Peeta was going to be at this wedding?_

I wait impatiently for a response, praying Prim gets service at the lake house and smiling tightly at Clove and Marvel across the table while sipping my wine just for something to do. My phone buzzes seconds later.

Prim [9:08 PM]: _{wide-eyed emoji face} And Gale too?_

Well, at least she recognizes the awfulness of my situation, even if she's avoiding my question. And she can send me all the cute smiley faces she wants, it's not going to throw me off her scent.

Katniss [9:08 PM] _Who's Annie?_

I hate myself for asking. But Prim responds too soon for me to retract my curiosity, because I see her answer just as I look down to my phone to type _"never mind."_

Prim [9:09 PM] _As in Thom's assistant Annie?_

Katniss [9:09] _IDK!_

_Oh god._ Did Peeta really bring someone who works for him as his date? Is he really _that _guy? _IDK_ that either. And I might be afraid to find out. I preoccupy myself with hoping Prim responds before someone comes back and I have to shove my phone back into my purse. It's a long thirty seconds, but thankfully, Prim's up on her texting tonight.

Prim [9:09]: _Pretty, brown hair, green eyes, painfully shy?_

So. I guess that's confirmation that Peeta's actually a creepy asshole who dates his assistants. I'm torn between breathing a sigh of relief and becoming even more frustrated that I even care at all.

Katniss [9:10]: _Yep._

Prim [9:10]: _She's so nice!_

What, exactly, is my sister's angle here? And why is she so chipper? Doesn't she care that Peeta's literally fucking with her livelihood? I frown to myself as I type.

Katniss [9:10] _Then why's she here with Peeta?_

Prim [9:11]: _Why do you care? {winky face emoji}_

I make a disgusted face as I swiftly put my phone away, my sister's obnoxious prodding overlapping with not only Finnick, but Peeta and Annie next to him, making their way back to our table. That, combined with the new information Prim's just given me, has helped me decide maybe I _do_ need that stiff drink. I stand as they approach.

"Look, honey, I'm making friends," Finnick grins at me, and my responding scowl only seems to encourage him. It's enough to make me wonder if I've missed some sort of exchange.

"I'm headed to the bar," I tell him flatly, squaring my shoulders when I feel two extra sets of eyes on me. "Want anything?"

"I'll go with you," Peeta jumps right in, forcing me to look at him. I bite my lip and furrow my brow.

"I can bring you something back too," I offer. It's a feeble attempt at avoidance.

"Now what kind of guy would I be if I let you do that?" he asks with a smile, his eyes actually sparkling with amusement. But if it's meant to be a dig on Finnick, he doesn't notice, already continuing the friendly chat it seems he's started with Annie as they both take their seats at the table.

And effectively forcing me into some quality alone time with Peeta.

"So. That guy's your boyfriend, huh?" he asks, leaning into me slightly and, shoving his hands nonchalantly into his suit pockets as we wait in line at the bar just outside of the ballroom.

I shrug off the rigidness my stance suddenly takes. "I really don't have the energy for this right now, okay?" I sigh, looking straight ahead at the older couple in front of us ordering a scotch and a red wine. I know Peeta's eyes don't leave me though.

"And the tall dark haired guy. He's—"

"I _said,_ I don't want to talk about this," I hiss, more frantically now. I really can't do this right now. I can't let Peeta splay my completely inadequate love life everywhere, just for his own enjoyment or for whatever reason he seems hell bent on doing it. Especially when he's so easily successful at his own—finding practical super models who are actually sweet and nice at what feels like the drop of a hat. I've got enough to be embarrassed about tonight as it is.

He honors my request for silence until after we order our drinks, and I'm ready to ditch him now that I have a drink in my hand. But he has other plans. "Hey," he says gently, grabbing my elbow to keep me from returning to the ballroom right away. I'm sure my face is a mix of anger and bewilderment, but I still freeze at his touch. "What do you say we get some fresh air?"

Normally, I'd see this for the trap that it is; just another way for Peeta to corner me and try to get me to talk to him. But I crane my neck through the doors and toward our table, where I see Gale and Madge retaking their seats. With cake. And then Finnick and Annie, who seem to be holding their own, still chatting amongst themselves. When I look back at Peeta, he's smiling guiltily. And it's almost as if…he knows.

"C'mon. They won't miss us."

_Oh god._ He knows.

I follow him wordlessly outside, to the deck that's open to guests. It's dark, and there's only one other couple already out there, off in a corner, sharing a cigarette. Under the dim lighting of one spotlight attached to the clubhouse and the half-moon hanging low in the sky, I see Peeta wrinkle his nose at them, and I can't help but smile inwardly. And with the cool air and the freedom of the open quiet away from everyone else, I feel myself instantly releasing tension.

"Look," Peeta begins to explain, as we end up against the deck railing, which keeps us penned in from the dark golf course with just the whispers of the other couple, a few crickets, and one hiccupping frog as background noise. He holds his hands up as if in surrender. "I just meant that you sure are popular at our table tonight. I wasn't trying to upset you."

I tilt my head toward him with a disbelieving eyebrow raise, and Peeta chuckles softly. "It's honestly not my fault if me just talking to you upsets you."

I sigh, setting my glass down on the ledge of the railing and looking back out into the darkness. "Can you just…cut me a break tonight, please?" My voice comes out smaller than it usually does, and I can hear how tired I sound. There's enough of a silence between us that I look back to him, and I can see his eyes flash with something other than bravado or amusement or self-assuredness for once. It's concern. And he furrows his brow.

"Yeah," he says softly. His fingers twitch slightly, and I watch him shove his free hand back into his pocket before he inches closer to me, leaning against the railing with me. "Okay."

I sigh again, wondering how the hell we ended up here. "Your date's really pretty."

"Who, Annie?"

I make a tired face at him. "Do you have another date?"

The corner of his mouth upturns slightly before he rattles his drink and takes a sip. "She works with me."

I turn around now, folding my arms across my chest as I study him, disapprovingly. "Don't you think it's a little unprofessional to date people who work for you?"

Peeta just smirks. "First of all, for someone who just asked me to cut her a break, you sure are being awfully accusatory." His smirk widens as my face falls. "And second of all, I think you're misjudging me again, Katniss. Because I don't operate like that. And she's just a friend. A coworker. Same as your _boyfriend's_ your coworker."

I may be feeling red-faced at Peeta calling me out, the flush eating at the apples of my cheeks and the tips of my ears, but I have my wits about me enough to know that not once has Finnick being my coworker been mentioned in front of Peeta. I narrow my eyes.

"So you _do_ know." I watch his reaction carefully.

"Katniss, he begins uncertainly, even though it's just because he's trying to figure out how to broach the subject, since he's clearly a newfound expert on my past life. "Besides the fact that I see your sister probably more than_ you_ see your sister, you were wearing a ring the first time I met you. And well, you're not wearing a ring anymore."

His eyes linger on mine as he shrugs. "I know you think I'm an idiot, but I'm not."

To tell you the truth, I don't remember much about meeting Peeta. I don't know if it's because there's not much to remember, or if I just wasn't paying attention because I was too preoccupied with my own life and oblivious to a lot of things that didn't involve school or Gale or our wedding. For a while there, my life was a blur of lesson plans, flower consolations, and cake tastings. And then when I looked up from it all, all I could tell you about Peeta was that, according to Prim, he had commitment issues, and that the first time I really remember talking to him, he ended up telling me I'd be prettier if I didn't scowl so much. And he'd laughed when I'd scowled at him for it. I've basically hated him ever since. And I've also just kind of assumed that Peeta antagonized me because he was bored and it gave him something to do between his real romantic prospects.

"You noticed that?" I ask skeptically.

The bashfulness of his chuckle surprises me. "I noticed a hell of a lot more than that."

I feel the smile on my lips, which I reluctantly give into as I shake my head at him. "I won't tell your date you said that," I mumble.

"What?" Peeta asks, the familiar flicker of mischief returning to his eyes. "You and me, we're just friends, right? At least, that's what you've made incredibly clear to me. And this is just a _friendly_ conversation."

I swallow. Why do I feel the need to explain to him? My past, what's going on here tonight—it's none of his business. I don't like that he knows any of it. But now that I know he knows some of it, I can't stop myself from wanting to tell him the rest. Of the truth, that is. "It wasn't supposed to—he was just supposed to be my date tonight. So I wouldn't have to come alone. But then we got here, and Finnick just started to talk, and it kind of spiraled out of control."

Peeta laughs at me. A genuine, almost sweet laugh. I'm almost mesmerized by the way his eyes crinkle, and the way I can see his shoulders shaking slightly as he does. "Well, I think you can safely say that it worked. It's been kind of fun, watching your fian—I mean your ex's—eyes bug out of his head."

I try not to appear amused, staring at the deck's slatted wooden floor. "You didn't help, you know."

"I know," he agrees simply, without any difficulty. As if it's just a fact he was giving me—well all of us—a hard time. On purpose. With premeditation. But now his eyes convey his remorse. I'm not sure I like that any better, because they look remarkably like a puppy's as he apologizes. "I'm sorry."

I shake my head at him, scrunching my nose with a groan. "You're an idiot."

His smile does absolutely nothing to help my cause. "I already told you. I am not." He inches closer to me, close enough that his chin almost brushes up against my nose and I catch the scent of the same clean cologne he wore to Prim's wedding. "But Katniss, for what it's worth? As your friend?" He speaks the word deliberately and knowingly, with just the right amount of playfulness that makes me question his definition. "If you want to know who _is_ an idiot? It's the guy who didn't marry you."

Peeta drops his shoulders into me, letting out a soft exhale that has my gaze bouncing from his eyes to his mouth on baited breath. Because in this moment, it's as if we've both forgotten that we came here with our own dates. The air between us hangs heavy and the tension builds as neither of us moves. The realization that it'd be so easy, to lean in just slightly, barely inches, and kiss him scares me more than anything else has tonight.

And if not for the disruption of the sounds of the clubhouse doors swinging open and closed again as another couple joins us outside, I'm not entirely sure I could have stopped it from happening. But as quickly as it began, the moment ends as Peeta and I step back from one another, jolted back to reality by the banging noise and the recognition that we've been seen.

"I'll, uh, be sure to leave you alone the rest of the night," he assures me quietly, with a short nod.

And then he suggests we should probably get back to the reception.

* * *

"C'mon kid. Let's test out the dance floor." Finnick leans into my ear from his seat next to mine as I pick at a piece of wedding cake, hoping the reason my mind's gone fuzzy is because of the fourth glass of wine I have in front of me and not because I'm still recovering from my little trip outside. I look up at his expectant stare, which tells me we need to dance. The DJ's just begun a slower contemporary song, and he's right. Boyfriends dance with their girlfriends to slow songs. At least the good ones do. It's like he knows Gale doesn't dance. _Ever._ I glance quickly at Madge, who sighs tiredly, looking at her phone as Gale and Marvel talk about something I can't hear. And I smile quietly as I take Finnick's hand.

We dance casually, yet comfortably. Finnick's not the best dancer, but he doesn't have to be to move us in lazy circles to the beats of some generic Justin Timberlake wannabe slow jam.

"So," he tells me just as casually as he leads me. "You have more friends here than you originally thought you would." It's the first time since our car ride here we've been able to talk amongst only ourselves.

"I guess you could say that," I mumble. Finnick looks at me knowingly. Except I don't know what he knows.

"You know Annie's just here as Peeta's friend, right?"

I sigh. "Coworker," I correct him, now meeting his perceptive look with one of my own "You two had quite the chat then." I'm not accusing. I'm just stating.

Finnick gives me a lopsided smile. "Well when you went off to bicker with her date, you didn't leave us much choice."

Great. More explaining to do. I take a deep breath to begin. "Finnick, that's not—"

"—Annie's pretty huh?"

Finnick cutting me off to declare his attraction to another girl tonight takes me by surprise. Even on a night that's been full of surprises. Although I can't say I blame him. She's gorgeous. But Finnick's careful stare cuts into my bewilderment, as if there's secret meaning to his compliments for Peeta's date. Though what that is, I'm not quite sure. All I know is their not-so-secret meaning.

"You like her, don't you?" I ask him softly.

Finnick shakes his head, still smiling at me. "I just said she's pretty is all."

I drop my grip on his shoulders. And I stop dancing. Because Finnick hasn't called another girl pretty since he broke up with Johanna, and I'll be damned if I'm letting my stupid games get in the way of that. "Finnick. You should…talk to her then. Seriously."

Finnick laughs lightly, not letting me escape his dancing that easily as he picks my arms back up and puts them right back where they'd been. "First of all," he says after a beat of continuing our messy steps, "I _have _been talking to her. And second of all, I didn't mean it like that, Katniss. Honestly. I'm still all yours tonight," he assures me, grinning widely and seeming pleased with himself. "And making all the guys jealous, apparently," he tells me. "Who knew I'd be such a bargain? Two for the price of one."

"Finnick," I warn, my voice low and slow.

"What?" he asks innocently, widening his eyes. "You didn't think I'd notice how Mr. Millionaire has a crush on you?" It's amazing, just how easily Finnick can suddenly sound exactly like my 25 year old sister.

I make a disgusted face. "Stop." Because he doesn't have to know that my head's still spinning or that a very small part of me _likes_ the idea of Peeta liking me.

Finnick just laughs at me though. "Katniss, we work with 13 year olds. So you can stop trying so hard. I think I know the whole _I hate you so much because I like you_ routine when I see it."

"Seriously," I groan stubbornly. "Not you too."

Finnick's still laughing at me, but he seems to be willing to give in to my request. "All right, fine. But when you finally figure out that you don't hate him, I approve. If only because he drove Gale crazier tonight than I did," he winks.

I roll my eyes, but my face softens. "Thank you, by the way," I tell him, hoping I'm smoothly changing the subject. "For tonight. You've been a pretty great fake boyfriend."

Finnick smiles appreciatively. "It's been my pleasure." Then he leans into my ear. "And by my estimation, we've got three more songs and then we can get the hell out of here."

I laugh, and we dance. And I stare over Finnick's shoulder, my eyes gravitating towards our table just in time to see Gale stand up from his seat, kissing the top of Madge's head lightly before extending his hand to her. She smiles sweetly as he helps her out of her chair. I'm pretty sure they're headed home. Because Gale doesn't dance, and there's nothing left to do here _but_ dance. It used to bother me—Gale not dancing—but with the way Madge is still looking at him, it certainly doesn't look like it bothers her.

And it's right then that I realize exactly what an immature 13 year old I really have been tonight. For as jealous or uncomfortable that I may have made Gale, which would probably be anyone's simple knee jerk reaction to seeing someone you used to love with someone else, at the end of the day, he's happy. Madge makes him happy. Happier than I did. There's nothing I can do about it, either; it's just a fact of life—he wants Madge more. And tonight, I can honestly say that I'm no longer upset about it. And that Gale no longer feels like…mine. Which is good. I don't want him to be mine. I don't want him. So if he's happy, then good. Not that I'm necessarily happy _for_ him, because things still ended too ugly and too badly for me to ever wish eternal happiness on him, but at least I'm over it. And I don't want to think about him anymore.

So I snap my gaze away from them, inadvertently landing on a set of blue eyes that belong to Peeta, who's staring back at me from the edge of the dance floor where it looks like he's currently trying to good-naturedly convince Annie to dance.

And he smiles.

And I want to hate Finnick for being right. But I can't.

Instead I just smile back.

* * *

_A/N: You guys and your responses to this story have been so, so wonderful. And it definitely keeps me motivated to keep up with the updates when I hear from you-so thank you. So, I hope this chapter lived up to expectations; and I'd love to know what you think. And if you'd like, feel free to come play with me on tumblr. I'm c-r-roberts over there. :)_


	4. Chapter 4

The Fourth of July falls on a Monday this year. It's the perfect excuse for Prim and Thom to invite friends to their lake house for the long weekend. So early that Saturday morning, that's where I'm headed. I ride with Prim and Thom—and Buttercup—since it didn't make sense to drive the two hours myself. Although a few minutes of sharing the backseat with the devil dog and Prim and Thom's choice of music—country, _always country at the lake_—has me already regretting my decision.

"So who's all coming again?" I ask, pushing Buttercup away from attempting to climb into my lap for the third time.

I hear Prim begin to list off names from the front seat.

"Well, Leevy and Mitchell should be there shortly after we get there," she begins, referring to Thom's sister and her husband who live an hour in the other direction from the lake. "And Bristel said she's coming, right?" Prim asks Thom, and I catch a glimpse of her profile as she turns to look at her husband. Thom nods from the driver's seat as he changes lanes to pass a slow moving semi-truck. Bristel is Thom's sister who's Prim's age. "My brother too," he adds, rounding out the entirety of his siblings.

"Oh, and Rue said she's driving up this evening."

This is good news, since I like Rue, but a slightly sick feeling hits in the pit of my stomach when I think of Prim's other friends who could be there this weekend.

"Is Delly coming?" Thom asks, as if reading my mind. I sense an annoyed tone to his voice as he does, and I remember that I can really like Thom sometimes.

I catch Prim rolling her eyes from the reflection of the rearview mirror. "No. She's staying in town with some new boyfriend she claims to have."

"I wonder if he knows he's her boyfriend or if she's just following him around and hoping to 'randomly' run into him."

I almost choke, holding back a laugh.

Prim sighs, although I can tell she's smiling too. "Be nice," she scolds. "She's just…persistent. Some guy will like that someday."

Thom snorts. "If she weren't pretty, some guy would have pressed charges by now."

Prim ignores him, craning her neck around to look at me. She grins. "Peeta's coming too, but not until tomorrow."

"Oh yeah," Thom chimes in, and suddenly I'm the one being ganged up on. "I hear the two of you are matchmakers these days."

I narrow my eyes at Prim, who's still staring at me expectantly. That's rich, coming from the two of them. But he's referring to Finnick and Annie. They have a date this weekend.

"That sure was a piece of luck, the two of them ending up at the same wedding," Prim says, smiling sweetly at me before turning back around in her seat.

"Yeah," I agree dryly. "Who would have thought they'd both be at the same wedding."

It's been two weeks since Darius's wedding, but Prim still hasn't officially owned up to knowing that Peeta would be there. And I still haven't forgiven her for it, since I'm still recovering from parts of that night. Prim doesn't respond though, happily turning up the volume when some song claiming to like _chicken fried_ and _cold beer on a Friday night_ comes on, and instead she begins to sing along.

As if on cue, Buttercup's nose butts up against my thigh, and I sigh.

* * *

Leevy and Mitchell claim the second bedroom, and since they're the only other married couple, it makes sense. Leevy even offers to let Bristel set up an air mattress on the floor if necessary, but it still means I'm relegated to either the back bunk bed room, or a pull out couch in the living area. I opt for one of the bunk beds, claiming a bottom bed with my overnight bag.

And then the weekend officially begins when Thom comes back from the grocery store a mile down the road with enough beer to get a small army drunk and hamburgers and hot dogs he plans to throw on the grill. We sit on their patio, waiting for others to trickle in. Their house is one of a few houses butted up against Coldwater Lake's shoreline. The house is small, but they have a large piece of property, with enough room for a pool and a fire pit before the yard turns into a small sandy beach. And their house also has channel access, so the side of the yard is actually a dock, where Prim and Thom's boat and jet skis are kept. It's a pretty day too, with a high noon sunshine filtering in through the trees on the partly shaded back patio. I can see plenty of boats out on the water from my seat, and even though it isn't very big, just an inlet fresh water lake that's maybe two miles from one end to the other, all of it makes me feel like I'm really on vacation.

Especially when, an hour later, we're at the pool, and I'm dangling my feet in the water with Prim and Leevy and Bristel, and Prim insists on keeping my red solo cup full of the Bloody Mary mix she's made. The guys—Thom, his brother, Mitchell, and Thresh, who'd pulled up about fifteen minutes ago—are all out on the jet skis, probably trying to throw one another off of them, if I had to guess. Which leaves the girls to prime gossip time. And inevitably, after we discuss potential baby names for Leevy, who's four months pregnant, and gush over the fact that Prim's wedding photos turned out perfectly, I eventually become the topic of conversation.

"So are you and Peeta dating now?" Bristel asks as she sips her drink casually. I glare at Prim, thinking she must have put Thom's sisters up to this, for just _so naturally_ bringing up Peeta, but she just shrugs, at least feigning her innocence.

I take an extra big gulp of my Bloody Mary then jab the celery stick into the drink a few times before I answer.

"Absolutely not."

Bristel seems genuinely surprised. "Oh. It just seemed like, at the reception, that, well—"

"—It was just a stupid kiss," I finally sigh, not letting her finish whatever thought she was trying to convey. Prim snorts under her breath, and I go ahead and ignore her.

"Yeah well, I wish a guy would just kiss me like that, then," Bristel giggles. I manage not to make a face, because these are Thom's sisters—my sister's new sisters—and I have to play nice. Even if I'm incredibly annoyed right now.

"Be careful what you wish for," Leevy chimes in with a laugh. "That kind of kiss can lead to _this_," she warns, pointing to her barely protruding belly.

The three of them laugh, and I decide I hate them all. And that I'm free to make whatever disgusted faces I like.

"Oh, come on Katniss," Prim chides me when she sees my extreme scowl. "We're just having fun."

Leevy looks at me apologetically when she realizes I'm not taking the conversation very well. "I'm sorry. It's just that Peeta's like another little brother to me. And it's fun to see someone keep him on his toes."

_Great._ So Prim didn't prompt Thom's sisters for their questions and it turns out that the _Katniss and Peeta Forever_ bandwagon is bigger than I thought. I wrinkle my nose and stare into my cup before tipping it back and emptying it of its contents. Then I hand the empty cup to Prim for a refill.

Because I've decided today is a good day to get drunk.

* * *

I wake up early the following morning—prompted by an earlier than usual bed time after a few too many drinks—and decide to go for a run on the path built along the road that winds its way lazily along the shoreline and into town. It's a good way to sweat some of the poison out of me, and it gives me time alone to clear my head. Because while yesterday was fun, being around so many people that I don't even know all that well is also kind of overwhelming. Especially when those people want to ask me questions that make me fidget. It works too, because the sun rising over the water and the light breeze that blows as I run into town and back makes for a peaceful, satisfying workout.

When I return, the house is quiet because everyone's made their way to the dock. I see people sipping coffee, or mimosas, and even pre-noon beer. It looks like Thom's readying the boat to take it out on the water today. I can't tell if I catch Prim's eye from this distance, but I think she notices me before I enter the house, where I fully intend to take advantage of its emptiness and jump in the shower to rinse off the sweat from my run.

I get ready quickly, absently humming in the shower under the stream of water I purposely keep cold in order to cool off, and then dig haphazardly through my bag once I'm back in the bunk bed room. I throw on my suit, a simple fatigue green halter top bikini, so I can head out onto the dock with everyone else. And I'm just zipping up my favorite pair of chino shorts, which are a faded beige color, when I almost jump out of my skin as the door to the bedroom creeks open.

"Someone's in here," I half-screech, half-yelp.

But it's too late. Peeta's already standing in the now open door way, looking just as surprised as I feel, with wide eyes and a duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

"Oh god, I'm sorry. I swear I didn't know."

He seems genuinely shocked, and there's a red tinge brightening his cheeks. I still eye him suspiciously, crossing my arms over my chest, feeling more naked than I actually am. His eyes instinctively graze my exposed form, just like I observe him in a red polo shirt and navy club shorts. I wonder if he was intentionally patriotic with his wardrobe choice or if it's just an unfortunate coincidence as I purse my lips.

"Your sister said I could leave my things in here."

_Fucking Prim._

"I'm done," I say with a shrug. Though I make no attempt to move from my place next to the lone dresser pushed against the wall beneath the window, the blinds still drawn from last night, with only a few streaks of sunlight peaking in on us.

Peeta gives me an awkward nod before finally deciding to cross the threshold of the room, looking for a place to put his bag.

"The beds are claimed already," I tell him. "Unless you want to cuddle with Thresh."

Peeta smirks, dropping his bag to the floor. "So, no boyfriend this weekend, Everdeen?"

I roll my eyes. "I think he's too busy hanging out with your date."

Peeta grins, crouching down and unzipping his bag, beginning to fumble through it. "That's going to be a great story to tell their future kids one day."

From the way Finnick sounded—excited and like a teenage boy—when I'd talked to him briefly about his plans with Annie tonight, Peeta might not actually be all that far off base. I watch silently for a moment as Peeta pulls out a pair of swim trunks before standing back up and meeting my gaze at eye level. He scratches at the back of his head with his free hand.

"I think we're uh, supposed to be headed out on the boat soon? Thom said something about taking it to grab lunch?"

The Breakwall. It's the waterfront café across the lake. So that's why Thom's getting the boat ready. But I'm surprised Peeta seems not to know much about it, since I'm aware he visits Thom's lake house all the time. I've only been here two or three times, and I've been there for lunch at least twice.

"Oh. Yeah, okay."

"So. I was going to change before we head out."

_Oh. Right._ "Sorry," I apologize in a mumble, jumping into action to grab a chambray shirt from my bag, throwing my arms through it as Peeta raises an eyebrow.

"You're welcome to stay, if you like."

I shake my head at him with a pointed scowl, which only encourages the pleased look on his face. I pull the shirt closely against me before crossing my arms tightly over my chest again and turning on my heel.

"I'll see you out there."

I can feel his eyes on me as I leave.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, seven of us load onto Thom's boat. It's big enough for everyone, but Leevy, Mitchell and Bristel opt not to come in favor of going into town and exploring the tiny downtown Main Street the lake community has to offer. I slide into one of the three seats available at the stern of the boat, next to Rue and Thom's brother. Thresh promptly tosses me a beer from the small cooler we've packed for the ride, and I catch the can of Yuengling in one hand. He gives me an impressed look and I tap the top of the can a few times before popping open the tab with a smile. Then he busies himself offering beers to the others.

I sip a few sips of the lager as we push off and chug along the channel at a snail's pace, but it's barely noon and it's not like I'm trying to get drunk before dinner, _again_, so I mostly just hold the can in my hand, craning my neck behind me to watch the shoreline begin to diminish.

"So, how far away is this place?" Peeta's voice cuts through the wind that's beginning to pick up as the boat's engine hums to life once we break free of the channel and onto the open waters. At first glance, Peeta seems almost like a college kid rather than the successful thirty year old he is, wearing a backwards baseball hat and a thin faded t-shirt he's thrown on with his trunks for the ride. But despite his summer tan, which not only brings out the blue of his eyes as well as smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose, Peeta's face is currently puke white. And he looks anything but comfortable as he sits at attention, white-knuckling the inner side-rail of Thom's boat from his seat directly across from mine.

"Just a short 45 minute trip," Thom calls from his position near bow of the boat, manning the wheel. I don't miss the wink he throws my way, or the way Prim shakes her head at him from her seat up front.

I also don't miss, what I believe to be for the first time ever, Peeta scowl. And I can't help it. I laugh. It's strangely endearing, watching Peeta freak out. He's always come off as so invincible; and as if he's never known a bad day. I'm not sure exactly what he's freaking out about, since we're perfectly safe and the waterfront café is twenty minutes away at worst, but I'm still smiling when he directs that scowl at me.

"Something funny?"

I shrug, pulling my hair over my shoulder to keep it from whipping in the breeze. The water smells cool and fresh, and I bite my lip to keep from smiling wider when we hit a wave and all of us bounce as if the boat just went over a speed bump, which just makes Peeta's grip tighter.

"I've just never seen you look…worried, before."

Thom chuckles, and responds before Peeta can open his mouth. "Peeta doesn't usually come on the boat with us. He's more of a land mammal."

I furrow my brow. "What? Is it motion sickness? Are you aquaphobic or something?" The idea of either is so foreign to me, since being on—or in—the water usually brings me peace. But I almost feel guilty for it, watching Peeta blink his blond lashes against the overhead summer sun as he stares at the floor of the boat.

"I can't swim," he mumbles.

And at that, Peeta has to react quickly in order to not be clocked in the head with the life vest Thom tosses him.

"You have to wear it then." The joy on Thom's face as he teases his best friend is more than evident.

Prim clucks her tongue at her husband as everyone on the boat watches. "Stop it."

"What?" Thom asks innocently, taking a nonchalant sip of his beer he's keeping in the holder just inside the boat's windshield. "Rules are rules."

"Oh please," Prim sighs, looking at Peeta sympathetically. Then she fixes her gaze on me like she's just solved a puzzle. "Katniss used to lifeguard. If Peeta goes in, save him, okay?"

I look at her warily. And Peeta responds with his own wary look directed at me.

"I think I'll wear the vest. Just in case."

I grin.

* * *

We all—including Peeta—survive lunch and the boat ride. And everyone spends that afternoon on the small sand beach that Prim and Thom share with only a few neighbors. We set up shop in the far corner of the beach with blankets and chairs, an umbrella for the fairer-skinned, and a cooler full of beer. And thank god for the beer. And the sunshine. And the waves lapping against the shoreline. Because it all works together to help drown out the noise of the guys playing some dumb game that they find way too entertaining, judging by the way they're yelling and laughing loudly behind us. Although no amount of alcohol or lapping water can help with the continuous stream of country music that Prim insists on playing from her iPhone as the girls lounge in the sun. So I sip my Oberon gratefully, thinking it makes the annoyingly twangy sounds of Jason Aldean singing about pickup trucks and _dirt road anthems _just a little more bearable as I try to relax in a beach chair low to the sand and facing the water. And I'm swigging heavily on my beer bottle while wondering just how many times Bristel can claim to _love this song_ when I learn I have a surprising ally in my war on bad music.

He makes it known when he returns to our spot to grab a new beer, just after he digs through the cooler, shaking the ice off of a bottle of Yuengling and twisting off its cap. I watch him from behind the secrecy of my Ray-Bans, where I take in his broad form, strong and tanned and shirtless in the early July afternoon heat. And while Peeta's switched out his baseball hat in favor of his aviators, it's still too easy for me to notice the way his eyes crinkle as he smiles before taking a sip from his fresh beer.

"How's your stupid game going?" I ask, pressing my own bottle back to my lips for another small sip with an even smaller smile.

"I just lost my partner," he says with a nod toward the house that I see Thresh making his way back to. I shoot him a look suggesting I don't really care, when Peeta shakes his head at me, looking amused. But his amusement changes to an expression of disgust as yet another country song begins to play. "Think we could change the station for a little while?" he asks, directing the question at Prim.

"Please," I mutter under my breath earning a dirty look from Prim. But she sighs, reaching for her phone.

"You know, you two are the only ones complaining." She switches the station anyway, and ends up catching the second half of Cage the Elephant's "_Take it or Leave it_," and I immediately react.

"Leave it," I instruct her. It happens at the exact same time the exact same words leave Peeta's mouth too. Prim arches her eyebrow high enough I can see it above her oversized sunglasses and I pretend not to feel the flush in my cheeks as Peeta gives me a funny look.

"You like this song?"

I shrug, trying not to appear impressed that Peeta Mellark may also be a fan of one of my favorite, although slightly obscure, bands.

He swallows a gulp of beer before coming up for air with a crooked smile. "They're coming next month you know."

Before I can respond, Prim throws a knowing look my way. "Don't let her fool you. She had a Nick Carter poster above her bed until she was 15."

Peeta smirks at the embarrassing, though true, dissemination of information. "I would've pegged you for more of an 'N Sync girl myself."

I wrinkle my nose. "That's the worst insult you've ever given me."

Peeta laughs, before turning to look at the contraption set up twenty yards behind us.

"Hey. Wanna play this stupid game with me?"

And in analyzing my choices—stupid game or stupider girl chatter where I'm probably just going to be the topic of conversation again—I reluctantly agree. And then try to fight the tingly warmth in the pit of my stomach that I get when Peeta grins a triumphant grin.

"What the hell is the point of this game anyway?" I ask, trudging through the sand with him. I eye the two PVC pipe poles set upright with empty beer bottles placed atop of them with doubt. Thom and his brother stop throwing the Frisbee amongst themselves when they see renewed competition approaching.

"It's called Beersbee," Peeta explains, fully expecting the dirty look I give him. And apparently, the point of the game is to throw the Frisbee at the empty beer bottles in the hopes of knocking the bottles off of the poles. But there are rules. If your team catches the bottle before it hits the ground, then you're safe. And you also have to catch the Frisbee. Oh, and you have to do all of it while keeping a beer in your hand. If the bottle falls to the ground, the throwing team gets 3 points. And if you drop the Frisbee, they get 1 point. But if you drop your beer, well then it's game over.

"This really is the dumbest thing I've ever heard of," I grumble when Peeta insists I take my place on the other side of the pole from him. Thom laughs at me while we wait for his brother to return with new beers for them.

"You two ready to get crushed?" he asks, sounding kind of drunk as he tries to trash talk.

"Don't listen to him," Peeta says to me, loud enough for Thom to hear. "Thom hasn't made a point yet." I smile, watching Peeta jump and nimbly catch the Frisbee Thom attempts to sail over his head. And I realize that even playing really dumb games, I'm competitive enough to still want to win.

It's actually easier to get the hang of the game than I thought it would be, and it turns out Peeta and I make a pretty good team. He has good hands, and in his words, I have "remarkable aim," which he tells me after the second time in a row my throw successfully knocks the bottle off the McIntosh brothers' pole.

"You picked up a ringer," Thom grumbles at the end of our first victory, after Prim's switched the Pandora station to _Hits of the '90s_ and everyone seems happy enough to listen to a selection that includes Nirvana, Eagle-Eye Cherry, and yes, even the Backstreet Boys.

Peeta grins at me. "Want to beat them again?"

I finish off the rest of my beer before smiling back and turning to Thom. "He wasn't kidding. You really haven't made a point all day."

Peeta laughs over the sounds of the Gin Blossoms' _Follow You Down_, and as we make Thom fetch new beers for everyone, I decide this stupid game is sort of fun. But I also decide that my enjoyment has absolutely no correlation to the way Peeta's laugh makes me want to laugh too, or how I secretly think he has more than just good _hands_.

* * *

We spend the evening grilling out, and after dinner, Thom and Peeta build a camp fire, which we sit around with an interesting mix of alcohol and the ingredients for s'mores. I strategically place myself on opposite sides of the fire from Peeta, though, opting to sit between Rue and Prim. And I make small talk and s'mores with the best of them, pretending Peeta doesn't exist because things had gotten too flirty for me on the beach. There wasn't one specific moment that made me think I needed to pull back or anything, but I can't stop feeling the spot where his hand had grazed the small of my back when we'd almost collided, both going for the Frisbee at the same time.

In fact, the only time we talk is when I announce I'm headed into bed and he calls out across the fire to tell me good night. I stop, watching his eyes studying me carefully, probably trying to figure out why I've been ignoring him. I wonder if my expression gives away the answer. _Self-preservation._

" 'Night," I say, as casually as possible, before disappearing into the house.

The night ends up being pretty tame though, and after a long day in the sun, everyone else isn't too far behind me as I hear them come back into the house from my spot in bed. In fact, judging by the house's silence and the fact that the other bunk beds fill up quickly, everyone goes to bed at a reasonable hour.

Though that doesn't mean that all of us fall asleep at a reasonable hour.

I'm still awake hours after climbing into my bottom bunk. And at two in the morning, the sound of the snoring coming from the person sleeping above me is ungodly. Rue may be tiny, but her nostrils must be huge, because the noises she makes with them as she breathes in her sleep are loud enough to shake the bed. I don't remember anything like this last night, but then again I'd passed out long before anyone else. But after tossing and turning for over an hour, I give up trying and head to the kitchen for a glass of water, figuring I can wait out the noise, or until she rolls over on her side, or _something_, there.

When I pad lightly into the common area, I'm expecting to have to feel my way blindly in the darkness. But instead I'm greeted by a soft glow coming from the other side of the room, where I notice Peeta, propped up in a sitting position against the back of the sofa bed. He's got a light blanket thrown over his lower half, and the bluish tint coming from the iPad he's currently bent over illuminates him just enough for me to see the look of concentration on his face that doesn't break until I clear my throat softly.

"Hey," he whispers, looking as though I've caught him off guard, though he doesn't seem entirely unhappy about it. There's nothing rational about me being secretly pleased he's awake right now either, but it doesn't stop my pulse from quickening regardless. Peeta's lips quirk upward and he purposefully switches off his iPad, placing it at his side. I nod silently before burying my head in the refrigerator, pulling out the Brita.

"You're up late," I respond quietly and matter of factly as I place the pitcher on the kitchen's island and move to open a cupboard in search of a glass.

"Mind pouring me a glass too?" I hear him ask, his voice sounding nearer now. I grab two glasses instead of one from the shelf, placing them next to the pitcher while I watch Peeta cross the room out of the corner of my eye. He runs his hand through his hair as he climbs up on one of the kitchen stools and watches me pour.

"Can't sleep?" he asks once I meet his gaze. I push his water gently in his direction, sighing before I take a big gulp of my own. The liquid is cool and sweet, and the action allows me a fraction of a second to gather my thoughts. The lake house hums quietly in our silence, with just the noise of the refrigerator running, and the air conditioning humming on and off as needed. And even through the closed windows, I can still catch the faint sounds of waves lapping against the shore outside.

I shake my head, rubbing an eye tiredly as I do. "You might not think it, but Rue is one hell of a snorer."

Peeta laughs under his breath, then sips his own water quietly. I watch him as he does.

"So, what's keeping you up out here anyway?"

"Believe it or not, but a pull out couch is not as comfortable as my own bed."

I smirk. "Well maybe you should buy your own lake house then. I think the one down the street's for sale, actually. Then we could _all _sleep in peace."

Peeta laughs quietly again, but he shakes his head at me. "Nah. I'm not really in the market. Besides, I'm saving my money."

I absently lean on my hands, raising my eyebrows curiously. "For what?"

"Oh, I don't know. A small country?" Peeta shrugs, already grinning. And I laugh, too loudly, which causes both of us to look around for any signs of life from the three bedrooms that are just a wall or two away. There's nothing, but when Peeta nods his head toward the enclosed patio off to my right, I don't hesitate to follow, since if we're going to talk, we might as well do it without the chance of being caught.

"What?" he asks, with a playful lilt to his voice as we make our way out of the kitchen. "That'd be pretty fun to own, right?"

This conversation's so ridiculous that I can't help but smile. I roll my eyes again, sliding onto the wicker patio furniture and sinking into its surprisingly comfortable cushions. "Make it an island," I tell him as Peeta plops softly down next to me, setting his water glass on the coffee table in front of us. I do the same. "I like beaches."

Peeta raises his forehead as he adjusts to make himself comfortable, which includes inching in my direction and tossing a throw pillow that had separated us to the other side of him. It's so naturally easy for him—gaining proximity so casually. Which is in stark contrast to the way it affects my nerves, because it makes me feel anything but easy or natural. "So does that mean you're requesting citizenship?"

"You're a dork," I accuse with an exaggerated sigh.

"Two words. Backstreet Boys. So are you."

_Fair enough._

"But seriously," he continues, the tone of his voice changing. "I don't need, or want, those things. And it seems silly to have more than one house when I'm barely at the one I own." I can't help but watch him carefully now, unable to look away from his face, with his blond hair and eyelashes that practically reflect the moonlight that streams through the large patio windows .This is the most information Peeta's ever given me about himself. And while I'm not sure what's prompting him, especially at two in the morning, it seems to spill from him so easily that I don't want to stop him.

"I work. A lot, Katniss," he sighs, and I realize that some of the tiredness in his voice seems attributed to things other than it being late right now. "And other than invest a little, and travel some, I have no idea what to do. I know that I'm lucky, okay? Things weren't supposed to work out this well for me."

I frown at the concern on his face, as if he feels guilty for his wealth. Which is as ridiculous as the thought of him owning a country. "Don't say that," I say, the words falling softly but firmly from my mouth, which surprises even me. "You deserve the things you've worked for."

It's true. Peeta may be a lot of things, but undeserving of his success in life is not one of them. He's worked hard. He and Thom both have. And for all the reservations I may have about him, none of them have ever been about money.

It's Peeta's turn to study me carefully, and I fidget under his gaze, picking up my water glass to sip it slowly.

"All I'm saying is that I don't…need it. It's not why I started this company—to be wealthy. I never pictured myself as a CEO when I started painting houses to make a little extra money in college. So. Sometimes it's a little overwhelming."

"Oh." My response is lame, but it's hard to know what to say to him. Seriously, all of this _spilling his guts to me in earnest _stuff is starting to make me feel slightly on edge. We've never even had a genuine conversation before.

"And these things—the boats, the houses, the extra cars," he says with a shake of his head, "I honestly don't see the point, at least without someone to share it with."

I shrug, leaning back against the hard arm of the loveseat, since we've angled ourselves in a way that I've wound up practically facing Peeta as he's been talking. And I feel myself slipping back into my normal suspicious disposition, because I'm not sure what he's implying. "So share it with someone then," I tell him nonchalantly. "It doesn't seem like that'd be too hard for someone like you to do."

"Someone like me," Peeta finally repeats, his words as deliberate as his stare. "You think you know me so well, huh?"

"I have an idea," I respond, turning up my nose defensively.

"Yeah, the_ wrong_ idea."

"Well, what am I supposed to think, Peeta?" I ask incredulously. "With your revolving door of women and your casual attitude toward dance floor make out sessions?" _Seriously._ And if we're going to be honest tonight, then he must know he hasn't exactly painted himself in the best light. Right?

Peeta looks intrigued with me at first, like he enjoys the way I've become bothered by him, my voice cracking as I hiss at him in a hushed whisper. But instead of his face breaking out into a smug grin, or him saying something smart in response like I'm expecting, his eyes fall from my face when I stare back at him, still waiting for my answer. He sighs, turning to look out the window into the dark shadows of the trees and the shoreline. I watch his profile, the line of his jaw setting firmly as he presses his mouth together, like he's still thinking. And seeming uncharacteristically unsure of himself.

"I really messed up, kissing you like that, didn't I?"

I consider him with another sip of my water before placing it down carefully. His eyes follow my movements until he looks back at me and I cross my arms over my chest. We've talked about this already. And we'd both agreed it had been a mistake. But sometimes…sometimes I'm not so sure. Like now, when he shakes his head, taking my silence as an implied yes.

"You really hated it that much?"

No. I didn't hate it. I didn't hate it at all. That's the problem. I just hated what it stood for.

And that's the other problem.

"I didn't hate it, okay?"

His eyebrow quirks with piqued interest, and I sigh.

"But I…don't do casual. I can't kiss someone when it doesn't mean anything. I can't just kiss people for _fun_, like you can."

More importantly, I don't_ want_ to. Even if it's the type of kiss you think about for weeks. And wonder how one stupid dance with one usually incredibly annoying person can make you feel like you've never felt with anyone else. As if, if only for a few seconds, you were the only two people that existed, even in a very crowded room.

And it's this—the scary, undeniable pull that Peeta has that's kept me running from him since then.

I watch his tongue dart across his lips quickly as he lets his bottom lip drop in a soft exhale. "Katniss. You really don't get it, do you?" His voice is low but serious, and I shrug my shoulders softly, feeling helpless in more ways than one.

Peeta swallows hard, and I watch the lump that travels down his throat as he does. "Katniss, you're so wrong. Really, really wrong. But if you think for one second that kiss meant nothing to me, well then clearly I did something wrong too." He pauses briefly, making sure my eyes meet his. "Because kissing you? It meant everything to me."

My mouth falls open, and I see just the hint of satisfaction on Peeta's lips at my surprise. But there's also an earnest nervousness in his eyes when both of us begin to lean in.

My own eyes flutter closed before I feel his mouth on mine, taking my bottom lip between both of his. They feel warm but unexpectedly soft, and he tastes minty, like toothpaste as we fall into a comfortable rhythm of feather-light, tentative kisses.

If I think I should be feeling any sort of conflicting emotion kissing Peeta, I don't. Though I quickly feel that _heat_ again as our innocent kisses turn into something more breathless. His hands find their way to my hips, his fingertips slipping under the hem of my tank top and digging softly into my skin, as if he's holding me in place. It's almost embarrassing how easily I melt into his touch, considering the amount of time I've spent resisting him. But Peeta—his lips, his hands, _all _of him, feels so good. I slide a hand up to the day old stubble on his neck, brushing my thumb against the line of his jaw, kissing him until we're finally forced to come up for air.

"See," he says, his voice a husky whisper against my ear. "When it means something, that's when it's the _most_ fun."

"Shut up," I whisper back, not letting the grin I know he's trying to flash get any further than an upturn of his lips before pressing mine against them again.

I feel kind of like a teenager, sneaking kisses with Peeta in the middle of the night with a house full of people who could catch us at any moment. His effect is dizzying and enthralling, as if I'm as drunk as Thom was before he passed out hours ago. He swirls his tongue in my mouth, and my hands are needy but unsure as they make their way to his broad chest, tugging gently at his shirt to pull him into me further, like we're sixteen and in the backseat of his car. A low moan escapes his throat when I reposition to lower myself under him, allowing his upper half to press against me. I sigh back into him, knowing that I've never felt this good—this _alive_—from just a kiss.

It's almost scary—how much I like kissing him. And I'm not ready for it. Not for the warmth that courses through me at his touch, or the desire to do so much more than kiss. Because while it's clear what we're doing right now means something, I certainly have no idea what that something is. And at some point—some point soon—we're going to have to stop, because my hands have moved to the short tendrils of hair at nape of his neck and his are starting to reach for places I might not be able to come back from.

"Peeta," I croak weakly, when his lips travel to the crook of my neck. I scrunch my eyes closed when I feel his mouth lift from my skin at my protest. And he pulls back slightly, blinking his eyes open as he tilts his head back with a nervous, breathy laugh as his eyes land back on mine, searching for what must be the answers I clearly don't have. He strokes my hair softly, his fingers pushing a loose strand back behind my ear.

"Please don't regret this in the morning," he whispers with another strained chuckle.

I furrow my brow with concern, even though he's clearly trying to make his request sound like a joke. "I won't," I promise softly, my throat feeling dry. But at the same time, I draw back awkwardly from him with the realization that what we're doing right now probably shouldn't be happening. Not at my sister's lake house, where any one of eight other people could stumble out of a drunken sleep to find us in a compromising position. Peeta's hands run themselves down the length of my shoulders, coming to a rest on my upper arms. I try to swallow. "But I should also, uh, go to bed. Soon."

A smile ghosts over his lips before he presses them against my forehead, kissing me with a soft, slow kiss that barely dusts my skin. There's an obvious change in his demeanor tonight that I can't quite pinpoint. And while it's different, it's still so inherently _him_.

"I have a whole pull out bed," he murmurs, with a playfulness in his eyes that makes my stomach swoop so hard it aches. I squirm beneath him with a nervous laugh.

"How romantic."

"Beats snoring," he retorts before his mouth returns to the same spot on my neck. "I could even take the other couch," he offers, sending a shiver up my spine with his hot breath against my skin.

"That's only slightly less suspicious," I protest, although I don't exactly do anything to stop him from sucking my skin gently.

"Right," he breathes, and I can hear the tease to his voice. "It'd be terrible to let them think what they already think." I push him in the chest lightly and he laughs, finally relenting. He pulls back and drops his chin to meet me at eye level with an easy, lopsided grin.

I bite my lip with a smile of my own, thinking that maybe just a _little_ bit longer couldn't hurt. And try to validate my delusion with the thoughts of Rue still snoring on the bed above mine.

_Oh god, I honestly hope I don't regret this._

"Maybe five more minutes?"

Peeta's eyes flash his approval before promptly kissing me again.

* * *

_A/N: Thank you to you lovely readers for your incredible response to this story. I certainly hope you liked this chapter even just a sliver as much as I enjoyed writing it. ;) And don't be afraid to let me know your thoughts, or to come find me on tumblr. I'm c-r-roberts there.  
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